THE TREES. We grew on mountains where the glaciers cry, Infinite sombre armies of us stood Below the snow-peaks which defy the sky; A song like the gods moaning filled our wood; We knew no men; our life was to stand stanch, Singing our song, against the avalanche. THE HEMP AND FLAX. We were a million grasses on the hill, A million herbs which bowed as the wind blew, Trembling in every fibre, never still; Out of the summer earth sweet life we drew. Little blue-flowered grasses up the glen, Glad of the sun, what did we know of men? THE WORKERS. We tore the iron from the mountain's hold, By blasting fires we smithied it to steel; Out of the shapeless stone we learned to mould The sweeping bow, the rectilinear keel; We hewed the pine to plank, we split the fir, We pulled the myriad flax to fashion her. Out of a million lives our knowledge came, A million subtle craftsmen forged the means; Steam was our handmaid, and our servant flame, Water our strength, all bowed to our machines. Out of the rock, the tree, the springing herb, We built this wandering beauty so superb. THE SAILORS. We, who were born on earth and live by air, Make this thing pass across the fatal floor, The speechless sea; alone we commune there, Jesting with Death, that ever-open door. Sun, moon, and stars are signs by which we drive This wind-blown iron like a thing alive. THE SHIP. I march across great waters like a queen, I whom so many wisdoms helped to make; Over the uncruddled billows of seas green I blanch the bubbled highway of my wake. By me my wandering tenants clasp the hands And know the thoughts of men in other lands. XVII. THE BLACKSMITH The blacksmith in his sparky forge Beat on the white-hot softness there; Ever as he beat he sang an air To keep the sparks out of his gorge. So many shoes the blacksmith beat, So many shares and links for traces, So many builders' struts and braces, Such tackling for the chain-fore-sheet, That, in his pride, big words he spake: "I am the master of my trade; What iron is good for I have made, I make what is in iron to make." Daily he sang thus by his fire, Till one day, as he poised his stroke Above his bar, the iron spoke; "You boaster, drop your hammer, liar!" The hammer dropped out of his hand, The iron rose, it gathered shape, It took the blacksmith by the nape, It pressed him to the furnace, and Heaped fire upon him till his form Was molten, flinging sparks aloft, Until his bones were melted soft, His hairs crisped in a fiery storm. The iron drew him from the blaze To place him on the anvil; then It beat him from the shape of men, Like drugs the apothecary brays; Beat him to ploughing coulters, beat Body and blood to links of chain, With endless hammerings of pain Unending torment of white heat;