Your lines on the scorched Ukrainian stubble.
On the veined marble of their snows
Indite a score to tether
The flight of your strain;
Or should you need a rougher grain
That will never corrode with weather,
Let us propose
A stone west of the bend where the Volga flows
To lick her cubs on the Stalingrad rubble.
Hasten, for time may pass you by,
Mildew the reed and rust the lyre;
Look--that Tunisian glow will die
As died the Carthaginian fire!
Today the autumn tints are on
The trampled grass at Marathon.
Here are the tales to be retold,
Here are the songs to be resung.
Go, find a cadence for that field-grey mould
Outcropping on the Parthenon.
Invoke, in other than the Latin tongue,
A Mediterranean Muse
To leave her pastoral loves--
The murmurs of her soft Theocritean fold,
Dovecotes and olive groves,
And court the shadows where the night bedews
A Roman mausoleum hung
Upon the tides from Candia to Syracuse.
THE microscope was at a loss to tell
The composition of his brain and glands--
Why blood should be like catnip to his smell,
And paws be given him instead of hands.