Some will call the skimming planets, cranesGoing south for winter—nothing more;And some will sow the icy fields with grains,Search barren pools,Harvest sea-weed, plant a pebble, orPlow snow with patient tools.
And they will never cease to look for spring:Climb endless hills,And turn from east to west and west to east;Imagining the leastShreds of far color,Supposing that they feelWarmth on their faces, following the wheelCircling on its axis, they will search the skyFor sign of thaw or rain, or any change—Looking for birds, where only dead stars flyAnd calling snows, and deepening snow falls, strange.
In tightening silence, they will search for sound;Beneath the smother of the skyFind tangled iron, as the first men foundIron and more than mortal sinew in the ground.
And they will worship symbols of sure things—Sure things, and tangible, cut clear.Forgetting rust, they will keep iron near,
28
