Classic Poem

Out of thy pregnant silence, brooding and latent so long,
Burst on the world, O Master, sing us the great man-song!
Have we not piled up cities, gutted the iron bills,
Schooled with our dream the lightning and steam, giving them thoughts and wills?
We are the poets of matter. Latent in steel and stone,
Latent in engines and cities and ships, see how our songs have grown!
Long have we hammered and chiselled, hewn and hoisted, until
Lo, 'neath the wondering noon of the world, the visible Epic of Will!
Breathless we halt in our labor; shout us a song to cheer;
Something that's swift as a sabre, keen for the mark as a spear;
Full of the echoes of battle — souls crying up from the dust.
Hungry we cried to our singers — our singers have flung us a crust!
Choked with the smoke of the battle, staggering, weary with blows,
We cried for a flagon of music — they gave us the dew of a rose!
Gewgaw goblets they gave us, jewelled and crystalline,
But filled with the tears of a weakling. Better a gourd — and wine!
O immanent Lyric Master, thou who hast felt us build,
Moulding the mud with our sweat and blood into a thing we willed;
Soon shall thy brooding be over, the dream shall be ripened — and then,
Thunderous out of thy silence, hurl us the Song of Men!