This page needs to be proofread.
Vol. IV LJottt7 No.1 3’A
APRIL 1914
POEMS.
THE CYCLISTS.
SPREAD on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets
Like black, snaring pinions,
They swoop down the hill-side,
The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plurnaged
Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling.
Over the dying Of England.
She lies with her bosom
Beneath them, no longer
The Dominant Mother,
The Virile—but rotting
Before time,
[1]
