Round fanglike towers threatening comets flare,
Death-bearing, fiery-snouted where they fly.
Magicians springing up from underground,
Aslant in darkness, conjuring to a star.
Crook-backed they haunt all corners of the world,
And with their arms for brooms they sweep the dust.
To hasten their slow dying. Then they fall,
And in the open fields lie prone,
Their sprawling bodies till at last they yield,
Lie buried by the sage-bush, by the thorns.
No current through the water moves,
And all the courts of heaven are locked up.
And over broken roads lets frigid range
Its palmless thousand-fingered hands.
All at once he's gone. Can life so end?
And crushed to fragments are his glassy eyes.
Burdened by light of dawn the man that wakes
Must rub from grayish eyelids leaden sleep.
Swim by like waters flowing.
And he weighs it heavily. And it is dead.
It was him the corn-ears glorified.
His feet were small as flies
In the shrill gleam of golden skies.