YOU use your mind Like a millstone to grind Chaff. You polish it And with your warped wit Laugh At your torso, Prostrate where the crow Falls On such faint hearts As its god imparts, Calls And claps its wings Till the tumult brings More Black minute-men To revive again, War At little cost. They cry for the lost Head And seek their prize Till the evening sky's Red. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALMSWOMEN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN GOOD AND BAD LUCK by HEINRICH HEINE THE CHURCH OF A DREAM; TO BERNHARD BERENSON by LIONEL PIGOT JOHNSON IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SANDALPHON by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW TO MY MOTHER SLEEPING by MARY RUSSELL MITFORD |