The Path of Kultur

HERE ran a road for lovers once, With maples in the moon; And under a bridge a water went Weaving a dreamy rune. And high upon the sycamores, The nightingales all night Besieged the dark with melody, Disturbed the boughs with flight. And here in coverts of tall grass Looked up a friendly spring, Glad to behold a face bent down, Or feel a fleeting wing. But now the lovers come no more; The road is rutted and marred By wheels and shrieking shells: the trees Are shattered, chopt and charred. New graves are billowing now: the field Like windy water heaves: The nightingales are gone: the spring Is choked with bloody leaves. And here at noon a vulture swoops On obscene errands bound: And here at night remembering ghosts Go by without a sound.