The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages <br />Of that stone made, <br />And crumbling roads <br />That turned on sudden hidden villages <br /> <br />Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete <br />That trails black wire <br />Pylons, those pillars <br />Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret. <br /> <br />The valley with its gilt and evening look <br />And the green chestnut <br />Of customary root, <br />Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook. <br /> <br />But far above and far as sight endures <br />Like whips of anger <br />With lightning's danger <br />There runs the quick perspective of the future. <br /> <br />This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek <br />So tall with prophecy <br />Dreaming of cities <br />Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.<br /><br />Stephen Spender<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-pylons/
