When the sun shouts and people abound <br />One thinks there were the ages of stone and the age of <br /> bronze <br />And the iron age; iron the unstable metal; <br />Steel made of iron, unstable as his mother; the tow- <br /> ered-up cities <br />Will be stains of rust on mounds of plaster. <br />Roots will not pierce the heaps for a time, kind rains <br /> will cure them, <br />Then nothing will remain of the iron age <br />And all these people but a thigh-bone or so, a poem <br />Stuck in the world's thought, splinters of glass <br />In the rubbish dumps, a concrete dam far off in the <br /> mountain...<br /><br />Robinson Jeffers<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/summer-holiday/
