To the South lands, the green lands, from the
North, the harsh
Rocks, where the eagles whose granite bills
Screech from the scars of toppling hills.
To the South lands, the green lands, from the
North, the marsh
Hollows which black waste water fills,
—The South green lands!
To the South lands, the green lands, where
the flowers of fruit
Are moons entangled in cosmic trees,
Where birds are rocks in the foam of seas,
The wind's a player, the grass a lute
Whose wires are swept by the wings of bees,
—The South green lands!
To the South lands, the green lands—but
halt, O hark!
A sob of birds in a poisoned wood!
The fume of poppies crushed foul in mud!
The whine of the wings of Death through the dark!
A sunset of flame, a moon of blood!
—The South red lands!