The old days are past
With a wilted wing
Leaves fall, so soft, on marble steps-
Wind blows, with no regard for maps
In silent plaza, void of men.
Sad marble worn by scathing blaze.
This urban enervation is a thing,
For past-obsessed scholars in lofty halls.
Wordsworth rings false in ears of steel,
for steel rings true for millions.
Men's lifeblood is now the stream
Of electrons and broad marqueed boards
Whom shouts of, "Bull!" and "Hold, don't buy"
Are present in a dreaming eye-
Past's dream, a dream, of cloud and leaf,
of bulbous plague and court intrigue,
Most surely, of the sparse day plod
Of rural real, pastoral peal
That irks emaciated peasants.
And there we come to here and now.
We forsake for urbanity the plow-
They, relics of the past, are wont to leave behind
A stygian legacy - for we, us creatures modern and unkind
To trample flat beneath our loathing feet.