Summer Holiday

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