Sylvia Plath

Night Shift

It was not a heart, beating. That muted boom, that clangor Far off, not blood in the ears Drumming up and fever To impose on the evening. The noise came from outside: A metal detonating Native, evidently, to These stilled suburbs nobody Startled at it, though the sound Shook the ground with its pounding. It took a root at my coming Till the thudding shource, exposed, Counfounded in wept guesswork: Framed in windows of Main Street's Silver factory, immense Hammers hoisted, wheels turning, Stalled, let fall their vertical Tonnage of metal and wood; Stunned in marrow. Men in white Undershirts circled, tending Without stop those greased machines, Tending, without stop, the blunt Indefatigable fact.

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