Fire, 1
Across the Cleveland countryside the train
Panted and jolted through the lurid night
Of monstrous slag-heaps in the leaping light
Of belching furnaces: the driving rain
Lacing the glass with gold in that red glare
That momently revealed the cinderous land
Of blasted fields, that stretched on either hand,
With livid waters gleaming here and there.
By hovels of men who labour till they die
With iron and the fire that never sleeps,
We plunged in pitchy night among huge heaps—
Then once again that red glare lit the sky,
And high above the highest hill of slag
I saw Prometheus hanging from his crag.
Panted and jolted through the lurid night
Of monstrous slag-heaps in the leaping light
Of belching furnaces: the driving rain
Lacing the glass with gold in that red glare
That momently revealed the cinderous land
Of blasted fields, that stretched on either hand,
With livid waters gleaming here and there.
By hovels of men who labour till they die
With iron and the fire that never sleeps,
We plunged in pitchy night among huge heaps—
Then once again that red glare lit the sky,
And high above the highest hill of slag
I saw Prometheus hanging from his crag.
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