The Song of the Smoke

I am the Smoke King I am black! I am swinging in the sky, I am wringing worlds awry; I am the thought of the throbbing mills, I am the soul of the soul-toil kills, Wraith of the ripple of trading rills; Up I’m curling from the sod, I am whirling home to God; I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am wreathing broken hearts, I am sheathing love’s light darts; Inspiration of iron times Wedding the toil of toiling climes, Shedding the blood of bloodless crimes— Lurid lowering ’mid the blue, Torrid towering toward the true, I am the Smoke King, I am black. I am the Smoke King, I am black! I am darkening with song, I am hearkening to wrong! I will be black as blackness can— The blacker the mantle, the mightier the man! For blackness was ancient ere whiteness began. I am daubing God in night, I am swabbing Hell in white: I am the Smoke King I am black. I am the Smoke King I am black! I am cursing ruddy morn, I am hearsing hearts unborn: Souls unto me are as stars in a night, I whiten my black men—I blacken my white! What’s the hue of a hide to a man in his might? Hail! great, gritty, grimy hands— Sweet Christ, pity toiling lands! I am the Smoke King I am black.