O ashen shade! limp attitude! like reeds
Of years of wind and weather overblown,
Like barren spaces ringed by trodden weed;
Thou, flattened mat! dost tease us for our age
As doth small children: Dried Pastures ho!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt infest, in midst of other woe
Than ours, the next in line, to let them taste.
'Ugly is truth, truth ugly,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'