Classic Poem

Many the children of men;
Swollen women I love.
Bite, white teeth of the frost;
Toil of the husbandmen lost;
Perish the children of men.
Praise of ease and a quiet lot;
Praise of anise and bergamot;
Praise of the note of the dove;
Many the children of men.

Pale let the worn hands wring,
Worn with labour and prayer;
The harvesters' heap is aflare.
I sing the corpse lying naked and robbed
On the plain's torn bosom; I sing
The cell grown cold where the faint heart throbbed.
Joy of gathering; apples blush;
Air serene of the standing corn.
Women are swollen; men are born.

Bind me about in death
With a garland of twisted wheat.