For nations vague as weed,
For nomads among stones,
Small-statured cross-faced
And cobble-close
In mill-towns on dark
Life is slow dying.
So are their separate
Of building, benediction,
Measuring love and
Ways of slowly dying.
The day spent hunting pig Or holding a garden-party,
Hours giving
Or birth,
On death equally slowly.
And saying so to
Means nothing; others it
Nothing to be said.
