Chains

I watched the men at work on the stubborn rock, But mostly the one man poised on a drill Above the steam that hissed and billowed about him White in the frosty air, Where the lordly house would stand.

Majestic, muscular, high like a god, He stood, And controlled and stopped And started his thundering drill, Offhand and careless and lordly as Thor, Begrimed and solemn and crowned with sweat, Where the great steel chains swung over the buckets of rock.

Then out of a nearby house came a youth, All gloved and encased in fur and touched with content, Thin-shouldered and frail and finished, Leading a house-dog out on a silver chain. He peered at the figure that fought with the drill Above the billowing steam and tumult of sound, Peered up for a moment impassive, With almost pitying eyes, And then went pensively down the Avenue's calm, In the clear white light of the noonday sun, Not holding, but held by his silvery chain!