Even the wings of death avoid this place, Avoid these barren fields, for Death itself Must nestle to the warmth of life and youth, And nothing dies where nothing lives. These men Wither away and fall, but do not die; They age, but not with years, they die but not With death, but with the chill of things out-worn. No youth is here, for these are born to age; Even the summer sun is haunted here With chilled and doubting glow, then fades away. And what to these can mean the Renaissance, The fire that flamed in Florence and gave birth * To Angelo, Leonardo, and their dreams? These fires are frozen here, and numb with coldThe unresponding hills-gray seas, gray earth, Gray clouded skies-no warmth of blues or greens. Even the passions here are cold and dull; That Athens was, that Plato dreamed, that Poe Had haunted nights with hunger from his heart, Or Byron sang of love-what mean these things To these? This is the land of Thor, but not Of Aphrodite-no Pan could be conceived Upon these sleeping slopes or in these thoughts.
What do You think about Smoke From This Altar (1990)?
