YOU use your mind Like a millstone to grind Chaff. You polish it And with your warped wit Laugh At your torso, Prostrate where the crow Falls On such faint hearts As its god imparts, Calls And claps its wings Till the tumult brings More Black minute-men To revive again, War At little cost. They cry for the lost Head And seek their prize Till the evening sky's Red. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SUN-DAY HYMN [OR LAMENT] by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES MISS KILMANSEGG AND HER PRECIOUS LEG: HER DEATH by THOMAS HOOD THE MAID VAR MY BRIDE by WILLIAM BARNES THE WET WOODS by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SECOND BOOK OF AIRS: TO THE READER by THOMAS CAMPION A BACCHANALIAN RANT by HENRY CAREY (1687-1743) SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 105 by BLISS CARMAN |