Some day, when the hollow mines Yield their final, grudging toll, When from out those drear confines Comes the last black lump of coal, Then, in chill and dark despair We shall learn to look on high, To the quarry of the air, To the coal-fields of the sky! Where the sun in quietness Bends his ample daily course, There descends to cheer and bless A Niagara of force. Steadily 'tis pouring down, An incessant, copious yield, On the house-tops of the town, On the reaches of the field. Here no "strike" and no "combine" Will disturb the course of trade; Every man will boldly mine In the sunfield unafraid. Every man will take his own, Fuel to his utmost need, And the sun upon his throne Will rebuke our human greed. |