We have not landed our last breath, though yet, the sceneries spring:

Upon the simulacrum of November, the Great Ones' horses graze meekly;

These stretches of Stone Age, as if— by the lure of soil, gyrate

Around and across its distressed coil.

The reek of the stables descends from the night's hearth;

Depressed leaves oscillate and fall upon the steel's clutch;

The round of this cup like kittens— asleep within the nulls of dogs barking.

But spills in a frozen tilt,

And paraffin lanterns went out in that roundness of the stables;

Across the street,

Compensated for by the sublimity which that time brings:

Amidst the stillness of these horses, and their shine: Neolithic.