MY mind is a puddle in the street reflecting green Sirius; In thick dark groves trees huddle lifting their branches like beckoning hands. We eat the grain, the grain is death, all goes back to the earth's dark mass, All but a song which moves across the plain like the wind's deep-muttering breath. Bowed down upon the earth, man sets his plants and watches for the seed, Though he be part of the tragic pageant of the sky, no heaven will aid his mortal need. I flnd flame in the dust, a word once uttered that will stir again, And a wine-cup reflecting Sirius in the water held in my hands. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: BATTERIES OUT OF AMMUNITION by RUDYARD KIPLING DAFFODILS by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE NEWS OF THE WORLD: 2 by GEORGE BARKER SONG OF SOLOMON: AWAKE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE NIMROD: 7 by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH TO MY BROTHER (2) by MARY BRYAN THE WANDERER: 4. IN SWITZERLAND: A QUIET MOMEMENT by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |