Classic Poem

Earth is raw with this one note,
——This tattered making of a song,
Narrowed down to a crow's throat,
——Above the willow-trees that throng

The crooking field from end to end,
——Fixed as the sun, the grave, this sound;
Of what the weather has to spend
——As much a part as sky or ground.

The primal yellow of that flower,
——The tansy making August plain;
And the stored wildness of this hour
——It sucks up like a bitter rain.

Miss it we would, were it not here,
——Simple as water, rough as spring,
It hurls us at the point of spear,
——Back to some naked, early thing.

Listen now. As with a hoof
——It stamps an image on the gust;
Chimney by chimney a lost roof
——Starts for a moment from its dust.