Classic Poem

Now , the same wind of August.
The same fields ripen in sun;
Cold seas wash against the stones.
The web that was spun is unspun;
Long rain has whitened the bones.

Yet the threads are not broken.
More delicate than the air,
They tangle close about us,
Finer than a bright planet's hair.
Sinister and murderous.

How carefully, unknowing,
We are weaving, and we make
New threads fastening the old.
New threads strong that will not break,
That will complicate, and hold.

The steel sword is powerless,
And the bomb, the wing, the gun.
What shall break it will be those
Strong enough to look in the sun,
To accept the wind that blows;

Though it be a wind crying
Destruction to the deep heart.
All that cunning can ensnare,
This strength alone will tear apart—
This alone make clear the air.