Might pound away the frailly-cobwebbed air.
To casual mossy stones and thistle weeds
The city crumbled; now its walls lie bare
As lidless eyes for crows to peck at them.
And in the sloe-gin heat of summer days
The sky’s enamel is not quite Limoges
But almost; here and there a tiny scratch
Of soaring bird, some swallow on the wing
Does irritate the surface. Sheer below,
Fierce-biting on the edges, rise the trees;