We're few, perhaps three, hellish fellows Who hail from the flaming Donetz, With a fluid gray bark for our cover Made of rain-clouds and soldiers' soviets And verses and endless debates About art or it may be freight rates. We used to be people. We're epochs. Pell-mell we rush caravanwise As the tundra to groans of the tender And tension of pistons and ties. Together we'll rip through your prose, We'll whirl, a tornado of crows, And be off! But you'll not understand it Till late. So the wind in the dawn Hits the thatch on the roof-for a moment- But puts immortality on At trees' stormy sessions, in speech Of boughs the roof's shingles can't reach. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ADOLF EICHMANN by HAYDEN CARRUTH TO THE ROCK THAT WILL BE A CORNERSTONE OF THE HOUSE by ROBINSON JEFFERS GOSSAMER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SOMEBODY LOVED ME by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON CORPORATE ENTITY by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH DOMEDAY BOOK: JOHN CAMPBELL AND CARL EATON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |