Classic Poem

Upon the sand the slant rain falls in vain,
The multitudes of the arrows of the rain;
The long, grey slopes sprout cruelty, and the sand
Creeps on, forever marching against the land
That would be fertile and fat with ordered peace
If these invasions from the sea would cease....
Upon the sand the slant rain falls in vain:
Futile are the invasions of the rain....
There lies nor end nor terminus to the sand
Sloping its million spears against the land
Or innumerably streaming in charges blind
And terrible, on the little horses of the wind...
And though each bent blade seems to thwart their course,
It only shifts the pattern of their force —
Innumerably they begin again,
Grain on enlisted, diamond-helmeted grain,
Overwhelming the armies of the rain....
Only a bitter, black marsh here and there
With a snake-mottled flower savage-fair
Or spear-grass naked in the sky's caress
Pricks space in universal barrenness.