The Producer’s Hymn

(For the celebration of Thanksgiving I offer these stanzas from my “Conscious, Unbound”. Since they can stand by themselves as a poem I have titled it The Producer’s Hymn)

Men’s thoughts are their conquests
Of all they can scan.
This earth and that star-way
Take spirit from man.

He gives to all forces,
All things of all kind,
The touch of first purpose,
The aim of his mind.

Their use for his living,
Their use for his bliss—-
This use is their heaven
And man creates this.

His motive’s pure profit—
For no men the same,
But no creed of needing
And no need to blame.

Hard work, and so challenging
Good men may rise,
While he who is masterful
Draws up their eyes.

Yes, men can be heroes
If work is man’s heart,
And if each end accomplished
Strikes another to start.

For men of high virtue
Each morning is one—
To stand up in gladness
For the things to be done.

The raking of oceans,
Cutting down trees,
Exploding through granite—
His hands are for these.

Scooping the earth up
For truckloads of ore;
This, too, is his virtue—
To take, and take more.

Pipe lakes into deserts,
Turn rivers around;
Give them direction,
“For market you’re bound!”

Bend steel over chasms,
Sweep concrete o’er streams,
Plant signs on the highways—

Raise towers and statues
And smokestacks and light,
Then lift up new cities
Like gems in the night.

Like gems, and like silver,
Like gold piled high
On the desk of the trader
With that look in his eye.

If these would reach climax,
If triumphs you’d see,
Then one thing is certain—
Man must be free.

For no man can prosper,
And each man must need,
If he’s not the reaper
Of this, the soul’s creed:

MY work, MY achievement,
My worth without strife;
My strength and my nature,
Their whole cause—MY life.
Self-love is my virtue,
Self-will is my right,
My reason my standard,
My pride and my light.

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