By The Factory

Whistles a-shrieking at 6 a.m.
What is so lively and strong?!
From my wooden porch by the factory
I take in its triumphing song.

Its notes are more fierce than a seagull’s,
A-scavenging far and wide,
And fiercer and freer its workers,
Who’ve lined up their lives with pride.

The trucks, they come rolling in early,
Wheel round, shift back to the dock,
As I sit on down to my breakfast,
Though it’s not yet seven o’clock.

Retirement’s got its rewards, yes!
And through my window I see—
The mental prints of the thinkers
Drawing their profits past me.

It’s nine, a full truck’s departing;
Geared, out of the yard it rolls.
The walls of my house are purring
And the floorboards are murmering souls.

Black smokestack cuts through the sun;
A big puff goes, like a cloud.
The earth here is getting warmer,
And presses are hammering proud.

I sit and rock in my rocker,
Keeping time to the rhythm of man,
For the rhythm of nature is heavy,
But light is a factory’s “Bam!”

Whistles a-shrieking at 6 p.m.
Men towering over red sun.
From my wooden porch by the factory
I see a real day get done.

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