This rose for all the world
For you,
These tears for all the dead,
Those empty words of morning tide
This ever-present dread.

Those cloying smells of perfume,
On the dresses of the rich,
This workman stumbling
homeward:
His body in a ditch.

September's moon still shining,
On this old planet's doom,
Her wind and tide conspiring:
A chill invades the room.