Now all of earth that fills the valley’s breast
Is turned in furrows, and the ram’s horn rots
Where cloven soil has penned the acres up
With greenness prim and ordered into lots.
And all of oak and lynn that strode the west
Of Redbird Creek where crows and blackbirds call
Are things of mist grown stark and tall.
The vibrant canes crowding marshy ground
Are tuneless pipes heard by bleeding ears
Through blighted chestnut cankered to the heart
And rousing all of memory’s ancient fears.
These foils of clouds that men and plows attend
Are tares and thistles strewn upon the wind.