Our fathers all were poor,
Poorer our fathers' fathers;
Beyond, we dare not look.
We, the sons, keep
Of tarnished gold that gathers Around us from the night,
Record it in this
That, when the line is drawn,
Credit and creditor gone,
Column and figure flown,
Will open into light.
Archaic fevers
Our healthy flesh and
Plumped in the passing
And fed with pleasant food.
The fathers' anger and
Will not, will not
And leave the living alone,
But on our careless
Faintly their furrows
Like veinings in a stone,
Breathe in the sunny
Nightmare of blackened bone,
Cellar and choking cave.
Panics and furies
Through our unhurried veins,
Heavenly lights and
Purify heart and eye,
Past agonies
And lay the sullen dust.
The angers will not away.
We hold our fathers' trust,
Wrong, riches, sorrow and
Until they topple and fall,
And fallen let in the day.
