The Shops                                                                                                   
Factories are crude and ugly places
Even at best, and most of them are filled,
With belts and shafts, machinery that races,
And men with heavy hands and grimy faces,
And noise, noise!--noise that is ever spilled
Upon the air like molten, white hot steel
So fierce it is; noise that is ground and shrilled,
Pounded and shrieked and hummed,
Clattered and drummed--
Noise of the furnace and the hammer, squeal
Of monster planners, crunch of giant shears,
Rumble of rollers thudding on the ears
With most intolerable clamor, yet these places
Are where the dreams are built.
--Through far flung spaces
The long trains thunder; over vasty seas
The ships move on superbly; towers rise
Graceful and strong against the arching skies
Of roaring cities,--miracles like these
--All the huge wonders of this plangent time--
Are born of ugly shops bedimmed with grime.



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