Alow us now a moment to complain:
(What better means have we to pass the days?)
Now in gold leaf, the trees, once evergreen,
bow in remembrance, and their trembling boughs
no more are sweetened by the cries of birds.
The land is like a wizened bone that aches,
and in the sky a gauntlet of gray clouds
comes slow but sure, and the sun rarely breaks.
What light will feed us when the world is dim?
Apollo, now we pine through blasted groves
because your makers bang a barbarous drum
and damn themselves in mordant expletives,
who find in slag a stuff to cry their spleen
and curse whatever once was gold or green.
(What better means have we to pass the days?)
Now in gold leaf, the trees, once evergreen,
bow in remembrance, and their trembling boughs
no more are sweetened by the cries of birds.
The land is like a wizened bone that aches,
and in the sky a gauntlet of gray clouds
comes slow but sure, and the sun rarely breaks.
What light will feed us when the world is dim?
Apollo, now we pine through blasted groves
because your makers bang a barbarous drum
and damn themselves in mordant expletives,
who find in slag a stuff to cry their spleen
and curse whatever once was gold or green.
