Song to New Song
Over my city Chicago a singer arises to sing.
I greet thee, hoarse and terrible singer, half man, half bird, strong, winged one.
I see you float in cold bleak winds,
Your wings burned by the fires of furnaces,
In all your cries so little that is beautiful,
Only the fact that you have risen out of the din and roar to float and wait and point the way to song.
Back of your grim city, singer, the long flat fields.
Corn that stands up in orderly rows, full of purpose.
As you float and wait, uttering your hoarse cries
I see new beauties in the standing corn,
And dream of singers yet to come,
When you and your rude kind, choked by the fury of your furnaces,
Have fallen dead upon this coal heap here.