I return to the fields
Of tillage peace
Who have wandered and found
No Golden Fleece
But only a nag
On a lifting thorn:
An ironic flag
brow-pecked, forlorn
Love's frosted buds
That could not shake
The nursing gods
Of green awake
Petty squabbling
My eyes did see,
And Achilles wobbling
In jepardy [sic]
And men of thought
Being hustled on
Till there was not
Under the sun
An unflustered bird
Of evening mood
On a poets word
In the interlude
Over the war-land
Fields I went
Strumming the crowd-
False instrument
One with the savage
And insane.
O War that did ravage
My virgin Spain
§ Line 6 is a correction of: 'On a wind-black thorn'.
