Classic Poem

Which I most love
The valley its grey head
Like a Spanish grandmother in a blue shawl
Or the valley a girl in starched collar and cuffs
Modestly conscious of sweet limbs under spring's new dress.

Which. No neither of these
Can rouse the fury that strips flowers
For I am no act of God
To confound lawyers and increase the waning prestige of priests:
The high unflushed cheek-bones of the moon's tired face
Would make a better death-mask for my enemies to forgive
Than the live smile I freely offer.
I can tell you
To polish your heart until it shines like a brass cannon
And you to go naked in the storm
And you to wear sleigh-bells
When you let your tea get cold
Listening to the bishops' chatter.
It doesn't matter
When the fire goes out
You will pull your shawls closer and go to bed untroubled in mind.

Your daughter's perfect
Cool fresh angular pear-breasted
O the lovely girls unascended leaning towers
The architect gone mad in his grave
And the boys
They all want to be gentlemen with large means
God send an angel with a big sword
God let there be hate and hate and hate and hate and love
And love and love and love and love.