Author Langston Hughes The millsThat grind and grind,That grind out new steelAnd grind away the livesOf men,—In the sunsetTheir stacksAre great black silhouettesAgainst the sky.In the dawnThey belch red fire.The mills,—Grinding out new steel, Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 3.7 (6 votes) Rate Log in or register to post comments