All my spirit is inundated with the tumultuous passion of Thy Voice,
And sings exultant with the Iron,
For now I know I too am of Thy Chosen...

Oh fashioned in fire--
Needing flame for Thy ultimate word--
Behold me, a cupola
Poured to Thy use!

Heed not my tremulous body
That faints in the grip of Thy gauntlet.
Break it... and cast it aside...
But make of my spirit
That dares and endures
Thy crucible...
Pour through my soul
Thy molten, world-whelming song.

... Here at Thy uttermost gate
Like a new Mary, I wait...

II

Charge the blast furnace, workman...
Open the valves--
Drive the fires high...
(Night is above the gates).

How golden-hot the ore is
From the cupola spurting,