Classic Poem

Machines! Machines! Machines! Machines!
Of every metal,—by every means,—
Bigger than Behemoth, smaller than birds,
In winging swarms, in bellowing herds,
Some for labour and some for play,
Man is making machines alway.
Yet here in the steel-ribbed heart of the city
Iron is singing its ancient ditty,
With naught but the blacksmith's mighty arm
And anvil stout to work the charm.
“Ha! ha! ha!” it sings to me,
“No machine will there ever be
Can nail a shoe to a horse's hoof!
Ho! ho! ho! And here's the proof;
No machine that ever ran
Can shoe a horse but the hands of man!
And this one thing all men shall see
Till men and horses cease to be.
You may tell it out where'er you wander,
For thus were Pharaoh's horses shod,
And thus the horses of Alexander;
And gruff Hephæstos, blacksmith god,
In the various, delirious days of old,
Thus shod Apollo's steeds with gold!”