Not. in Bright Cities

Now swiftly frost furs the rigid bone
not in bright cities empty of aimless feet
hushed in a fear deserted by the years:
the dead only there, death alone in the valley.

The child laughs at the deliberate bomb
for there is the comfort of the accepted response,
effortless and primordial as a sacrament
to dull the echoes in the impartial ice.

Let us praise then the treasure in the doomed vault;
by this we breathe, it is fast to determine commandments;
see the patient philosopher, dampened by the absolute,
smile gently at the crudity of the empty bellied.

Prayer avails not against them, but there is strength
and light cast on the march, not the desire:
seek watchword, unready, all else is empty:
there are shreds of fire wakening the slow dawn.

R.L.M.