Classic Poem

The verdure is gone, the fragrance is fled,
The crops are gathered, the stalks are dead,
There is only the beauty of ruin in their stead.

Earth now is fleshed as rigid as stone,
The rocks lie scattered like splintered bone,
Above cold hills the clouds are coldly blown,

And cold and casual, far on high,
The woman-breasted hydroplanes fly,
Bird-winged, steel-taloned, against a frozen sky.