It’s bad, kids.
I leant upon a coppice gateWhen Frost was spectre-grey,And Winter’s dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the skyLike strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nighHad sought their household fires.The land’s sharp features seemed to beThe Century’s corpse outleant,His crypt the cloudy canopy,The wind his death-lament.The ancient pulse of germ and birthWas shrunken hard and dry,And every spirit upon earthSeemed fervourless as I….
The darkness enfolds our land. Civility and, therefore, civilization deteriorate at an accelerating pace. No one with wit can deny this. And yet, the land resembles nothing so much as a giant ostrich farm, every hole in the ground filled with ostrich crania. Continue reading