That day, in the slipping of torsos and straining flanks <br />on the bloodied ooze of fields plowed by the iron, <br />And the smoke bluish near earth and bronze in the sunshine <br />floating like cotton-down, <br />And the harsh and terrible screaming, <br />And that strange vibration at the roots of us… <br />Desire, fierce, like a song… <br />And we heard <br />(Do you remember?) <br />All the Red Cross bands on Fifth avenue <br />And bugles in little home towns <br />And children's harmonicas bleating <br /> <br />America! <br /> <br />And after… <br />(Do you remember?) <br />The drollery of the wind on our faces, <br />And horizons reeling, <br />And the terror of the plain <br />Heaving like a gaunt pelvis to the sun… <br />Under us - threshing and twanging <br />Torn-up roots of the Song…<br /><br />Lola Ridge<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-24/
