  I This red hush toppling over the sky, Wanders one step toward the stars And dies in a questioning shiver. The steel-mill chimneys fling their gaunt seeking A little distance into the red That softly combs their smoky hair. The steel-mill chimneys only live at night When crimson light makes love to them And star-light trickles through the red, Like glimpses of some far-off fairy tale. Throughout the day the steel-mill chimneys stand Rigidly within the wind-whirled glare: Only night can bring them supple straightness. II From the little, brown gate that does not see them Because its eyes are blind with wooing soot, An endless stream of men scatters out Into the cool bewilderment of morning. Upon their lips a limply child-like surrender Curves out to the light, as though they felt The presence of an unassuming strangeness. The morning hides from their eyes: They walk on, in great strides, Like blind men swinging over a well-known scene. Their faces twitch with echoes of iron fists: Their faces hold a swarthy stupor Loosened by little fingers of morning light Until it droops into reluctant life. And then their eyes, made flat by night, Swell into a Madonna-like surprise At children trooping back in huge disguise. The oranges in lunch-room windows change To sleek suns dipped in sleepy light, And rounded tarts in china plates Are like red heart-beats, resting but not dead. A trolley-car speeds by And seems a strident lyric of motion. Wagons rumble down the street Like drums enticing weariness to step.... The hearts of these steel-striding men Ascend and blend within their eyes, And yet, these men are unaware of this. They only feel a fluid relief Voicing, in a clustered roar, The cries of struggling thoughts unshaped by words. But there are some who break forth from the rest. This old Hungarian strides along And binds naÏvely-winged prayer-sandals Upon the heavy feet of shuffling loves. Gently, he plays with his beard As though his fingers touched a woman’s hair. And this young Slav whose surly blasphemy Curls his face into a simple hate, Has taken iron into his laugh And uses it to hew his stony mind. While this Italian whose deep olive skin Shines like sunlight groping through dense leaves, Forgets his battered happiness And bows with mock grace to his shouting day. Beside him is a fellow-countryman Walking aimless, dazed with joy of motion. Upon his face a glistening vacancy Lights the mildly querying thoughts That seek each other but never meet. Behind him steps a stalwart Pole Whose rhythmic, stately insolence Turns the sidewalk into a grey carpet, Grey as the shades that race across his face And show the savage squalor of his soul. Night has broken her heart upon him, Only scarring his bitter smile. A street of little, jack-o’-lantern houses Veering into leering saloons, Where the night, a crazy child, Dips herself in sallow rouge And chases oaths and heavy mirth And even human beings: Where the smoky sadness of the steel-mills Wanders hesitantly into death And drops a ghostly blur upon this girl. Her numbly waxen, cherub face Emerges gently from the doorway’s blackness As though the dark had given birth to it. And then the falling light reveals That something of a village hangs about her: Something slumbering and ample. The doorway is too small to hold Her shoulders that are like a hill’s broad curves Dwindled in the distance.... She is one of many earth-curved girls Who listened to the insistent tinkle Of wind-winged music from a far-off land: Listened and knew not That their own hearts faintly played. So she ran to this far phantom, Only finding it within herself When the city’s sly fists rained upon it. Then once more she fled With a dead heart whose restless pallor Crept to squalid wantonness, for refuge. And now she stands within this doorway, Uttering muffled innuendoes To the drained men of her race. Yet, something of a village hangs about her: Something slumbering and ample Stealing from the earth curves of her shoulders. III The steel-mill workers straggle down this street, Clanging shut the doorways of their souls, And the sound rips their lips open. The steel-mill workers do not know of this: They only seek something that will sweeten The dirt that has eaten into their flesh And change it to raw music. They straggle down this street, Their faces slack and oiled with amorousness. Like cats they play with their desires, Biting them with little laughs Until the sallow houses draw them in. And then the night pursues their revelry: Echoes from the shut doors of their souls. IV Three bent women and a child Stoop before the steel-mill gate As though the morning’s ghastly murmur Washed against them in a wave Stiffening them into resisting curves. One is old and floridly misshapen. Years have melted out within her frame, Flooding her with lukewarm loves. The wrinkles on her flabby face Are like a faded scrawl of pain Scattered by the flesh on which it rests. Her frayed shawl hanging unaware of her Is a symbol of her heart. The woman standing at her side Is tall and like a slanting scarecrow Coldly jerking in the morning’s glare. Only when she lifts a bony hand Tapping life against her face, Does the image disappear. Dead dreams dangle in her heart, Limply hanging from their rainbow sashes, And whenever one sash trembles, Then, she lifts a gnarled hand to her face And tastes a moment of departing life. Near her stands a slimly rigid woman With an iron fear upon her bones. A worn s
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