Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England. She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile-but rotting Before time. The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WATERS OF H. BAPTISME by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET UPON THE HILL BEFORE CENTREVILLE by GEORGE HENRY BOKER WINTER NIGHTFALL by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES UNCLE SIMON AND UNCLE JIM by CHARLES FARRAR BROWNE A LAST DESIRE by ROSE M. BURDICK MELISSA by ROBERT LOUIS BURGESS SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 10 by BLISS CARMAN TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. IN EXTREME AGE by EDWARD CARPENTER |