On Glassworks, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri
In pliant cames the clouds would train the morning breeze to travel. Invisible, yet no less wondrous than molten glass, the wind does gently bend its airy cage; this yields more towards persuasion than the stoic iron. And yet, what pattern will the worker force, with hellish heat, from iron and from glass, of better cast than that I glimpsed this morning?
