The Child stares to morning mist, and smells the sewer dew
To blooming roses of trash. I asked him:
"Have you seen the wonders of meadows now few?
Where the prairie lies dead; the starlights now dim?"
Eyes sore, he seems concerned only upon cars;
Those honking birds over a pavement black.
I cried, 'Do you not hate the trains afar?
Bellowing on fields and scything hooves in sacks?
Still staring, he sighs, "I don't hate. But I love
In the dawn of his new Creation. In fear,
Cities shrill with hope to call back the doves
That flew away from wild. Hate has sickened her
As he atones, Man and then Child will serve:
Grooming steel flowers like an ass stripped of his fur.