When the speed comes a-creeping overhead And belts begin to snap and shafts to creak, And the sound dies away of them that speak, And on the glassy floor the tapping tread; When dusty globes on all a pallor shed, And breaths of many wheels are on the cheek; Unwilling is the flesh, the spirit weak, All effort like arising from the dead. But the task ne'er could wait the mood to come; The music of the iron is a law: And as upon the heavy spools that pay Their slow white thread, so ruthlessly the hum Of countless whirling spindles seems to draw Upon the soul, still sore from yesterday. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A TIME TO TALK by ROBERT FROST STRANGE MEETING by WILFRED OWEN TO MADEMOISELLE by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER NATALIA'S RESURRECTION: 12 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE GOLDEN ODES OF PRE-ISLAMIC ARABIA: EL HARITH by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |