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...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 6 by CONRAD AIKEN ARCHIMEDES LAST FORAY by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE BOOK OF STONES AND LILIES by AMY LOWELL THE ICE-CREAM SANDWICH by KAREN SWENSON PLACES: 4. EVENING (NAHANT) by SARA TEASDALE |