After the outburst and the terrible squalls
I hooped you with my arms

I rode down England
as they fired the crop
that was the leavings of a crop,

And we were no more scattered
Like swallows, or flowing from the broken
Hill like shards, but the swallows as they were

To the lightning bolt, burdened
Interpreter of the quick, bright
Scratch.

Every dwelling is a desolate hill.
Every hill is a desolate dwelling.

The lapse of all streams is a form of weeping,
And the heaving swell of the sea.

The sovereigns of the world are old,
and die without heirs.
Their sons die young behind guarded doors.

Sometimes in the evening I see
coming toward me, from a distance,
a kind of blossom: huge, blue, nodding

Even the morning dreams of it

Bent over those torn envelopes or steaming
Papers those Cubist towers