The moon! From the hushed heart of her,
Metallic as a grasshopper,
Patient though earth may writhe and rock,
Imperturbably, tock, tick-tock!
Till, boastful earth, your forests wilt
In grotesque Death. Till Death shall silt,
Loud-blooded man, her unchecked sands
From feet and warped expiring hands
Through fatuous channels of the thinned
Brain. Till all the clangours which have dinned
Through your arched ears are only this,
Tick-tock down blank eternities,
Where still the sallow death's-head ticks
As stars burn down like candle-wicks.
UNNAMED FRUIT
(For A. E. Coppard)