University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, March, 1914.
FROM THE STATUE BY DANIEL CHESTER FRENCH, NORTH SIDE, PITTSBURGH]
Oily and black is my face, I know, Fire-bleared and sullen am I; Blood-streaks of ore-dust scar me and show Where a long barge has gone by.
Yet I reflect many houses of toil Where the world's work is forged through; Where flames and muscle bring metal to boil While Trade is waiting the brew.
No sunset sends its long shadows of gold Over my dingy old face; Only a smoke-streaked glow makes bold, Lighting the driftwood space.
White-coated craft keep aloof from my rush, Pleasure craft, modish and trim As dainty women who shrink when they brush Workmen's coats, rusty and dim.
Yes, I am homely, oily am I, Hideous, sullen, and bleared, Yet I have answered my laborer's cry-- Not yet is _my_ conscience seared.
There they stand, the flowering rods, Rods of sunshine that are God's, Captive sunshine held at bay While the autumn wears away, Promise of a coming day When new flowers shall blow that way.
There they stand, the blackening stacks, Stacks all charred with browns and blacks Like a nest of black-scaled snakes, From whose jaws which nothing slakes Jaggèd tongues of hungry flame Leap through darkness none dare name; Burning night, devouring dark, Hissing, reeling, spewing spark, Breathing smokes that writhe and twist, Taunting all that dares exist.
Yet this nest of fiendish flame-- Brood all-worthy Satan's name-- Rises up from God's own mills, His as much as all the hills, Where they stand, the flowering rods, Rods of sunshine, held at bay While the autumn wears away.
One day a Toiler walking home among a crowd of men At sunset viewed a wondrous sight, and called the Other Ten: "An artist has been here to-day since we went in the mill; He's made the housetops all aflame, and every window sill Is shining round the burning glass that glows with brands of fire; His brush has left a crimson sky and colored every spire; The grass is painted brighter green, and every dusty leaf That silent hangs upon the tree is sketched in bold relief."
"Just hear poor Dan; he's raving mad," called out the Other Ten. "We'll see him home, he's gone, all right, he'll not be back again." And then they laughed full hideously, and mocking, jeered at him, Till pale he grew, and scarlet turned, then, as before, was grim: The Other Ten, whose dusty coats encased ten dusty souls, Had snuffed the kindling flame of light with jeers and coarse cajoles.