by Hervey Allen

Hervey Allen

Thought, rootless thought of town,
Cut from its primal source,
Grows subtle and grows faint,
Less than the wisdom of the clown,—
Who with his hands in roots
Has felt them and himself,—
While sheltered from all weather,
The hives breed insect-taint,
Worship Leviathan and Mirth,
Hating the necessary drones
Of thought, they swarm together,
Pouring a cataract of birth
Till the great germens groan
With plethora of Earth;
Till fury cancels the absurd
Hope of the dreamers who'd transcend
By magic toxins from the herd
Our lone beginning and our lonelier end.

Towns, the "immortal night" is gone,
The sanctity of sunset,
And the hope of dawn,
The irony of stars;
So many are your walls,
Your air breeds prison-hints
Of closed-despair that mars
Anticipation of our palls.

Your wildering tomes on shelves
Make us forget
That we are children of the Earth,
Who brings all things to birth,
And lends us breath,
And the relief of death
To free us from ourselves.

Last updated January 14, 2019