. . .ane on earth, it lifts Two hundred ton more easily Than I can lift my heavy head: And when it swings, the whole world shifts, Or so, at least, it seems to me, As, day and night, adream I lie Upon my crippled back in bed, And watch it up against the sky. My mother, hunching in her chair, Day-long, and stitching trousers there-- At three-and-three the dozen pair... She'd sit all night, and stitch for me, Her son, if I could only wear... She never lifts her eyes to see The big crane swinging through the air. But, though she has no time to talk, She always cleans the window-pane, That I may see it, clear and plain: And, as I watch it move, I walk Who never walked in all my days... And, often, as I dream agaze, I'm up and out: and it is I Who swing the crane across the sky. Right up above the wharf I stand, And touch a lever with my hand, To lift a bunch of girders high, A truck of coal, a field of grain. . . Read More