SMOKE of the fields in spring is one, Smoke of the leaves in autumn another. Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel, They all go up in a line with a smokestack, Or they twist ... in the slow twist ... of the wind. If the north wind comes they run to the south. If the west wind comes they run to the east. By this sign all smokes know each other. Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn, Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue, By the oath of work they swear : " I know you." ^ Hunted and hissed from the center Deep down long ago when God made us over, Deep down are the cinders we came from You and I and our heads of smoke. Some of the smokes God dropped on the job Cross on the sky and count our years And sing in the secrets of our numbers ; Sing their dawns and sing their evenings,

Sing an old log-fire song: