The tired air groans as the heavies swing over, the river-hollows boom; The shell-fountains leap from the swamps, and with wildfire and fume The shoulder of the chalkdown convulses. Then jabbering echoes stampede in the slatting wood, Ember-black the gibbet trees like bones or thorns protrude From the poisonous smoke -- past all impulses. To them these silvery dews can never again be dear, Nor the blue javelin-flame of thunderous noons strike fear. |