Classic Poem

Slog brute streets with rebel tramping!
Higher, the crags of haughty heads!
We will wash all the planets' cities
In the surge of a second flood.

Pied days, these.
Slow drags the dray of years
Our god's Speed.
Our hearts are drums.

Who can match the glow of our gods?
Will the waspy bullets bite?
We strike back with songs for weapons.
Massive gold — our thundering voices.

Lacquer the lawn, green,
Carpet the days, grass;
Harness the quick years, sky,
Under a rainbow yoke.

Look at heaven, gaping with boredom:
We have shut it out from our songs.
Hey, Great Dipper, demand
That they hoist us to heaven alive.

Drink to joy! Shout!
Spring has flooded our blood.
Heart, exult, beat!
Our hearts are as crashing brass.