Classic Poem

Cold toadstools under moist moons growing
Push up between rain-rusted leaves
And rank wet growths which August eves
Vex, when dull winds blowing
Bring clouds of thin vibrating wings,
In damp dusk woods where morning clings
After the morning, and the gray even
Flits like a moth under no starlit heaven.

Dead-flesh-like where the quick flesh holds them,
With a thick odor of rich mold,
As when things oversweet grow old
And slow decay enfolds them;
Above as a snake's summer skin
Smooth, but below void veins begin
To vex the bloodless frozen flesh
With labyrinthine line and glutted mesh.

White with a cold unhealthy whiteness,
Black with the blackness of bruised blood,
Rose-purple, like a feverish bud
Filled with unhappy brightness,
Where the sharp winds bite hard like flame;
They rise as though some poisonous name
By demons spoken under earth
Had set them there with smiles of sterile mirth.