The Day Is A Poem (September 19 1939)

 This morning Hitler spoke in Danzig, we hear his voice.

A man of genius: that is, of amazing
Ability, courage, devotion, cored on a sick child's soul,
Heard clearly through the dog wrath, a sick child
Wailing in Danzig; invoking destruction and wailing at it.

Here, the day was extremely hot; about noon
A south wind like a blast from hell's mouth spilled a slight rain
On the parched land, and at five a light earthquake
Danced the house, no harm done.
 Tonight I have been amusing myself
Watching the blood-red moon droop slowly
Into the black sea through bursts of dry lightning and distant thunder.

Well: the day is a poem: but too much
Like one of Jeffers's, crusted with blood and barbaric omens, 
Painful to excess, inhuman as a hawk's cry.

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