Classic Poem

The swallowed thud of cattle shouldering through
Cool translucent distances of dew;
The blue dawn like a shell warmed by their lowing;
The patter of pigeon feet on the roof; the rooster crowing;
The tepid interval when pale birds cheep
Beneath their wings; the flutter muffled with sleep;
Crickets on dripping planks; the delighted noises of things that creep
In subterranean softness: things too small for a name
Moving through private tunnels down to their instant of flame. . . .
Strange how beautiful these things are; how these
Things are still beautiful; strange
That our sweet flesh falters, knows ghastly change—
And these things are still beautiful under the hawk-dark trees!