Iron from the Hills

Imagination clangs and bangs

Becomes log turners and dogs

That run into the woods,

Return with boards for homes.

The inside of the tree before it falls

Into line and presents itself

For its highest and best use;

Human genius right on track.

There is no room for nay-sayers;

Vacillation has left us too long

Prey to politics of desolation.

We are alive, forever blessed.

Do not concede the suicide pact.

These sparks of light, more than that.

The dream at our fingertips today;

The dream of humanity.

Iron from the hills to furnaces

And wrought again until

There is magic worked by hands

Blades, chains, gears and paths

That rise above the last generation.

It is an upward spiral, Mr. Yeats:

We are the vision of human action

Harmonized with the ancient gods

Of this place.