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Poem by Amy Lowell
Spread on the roadway, With open-blown jackets, Like black, soaring pinions, They swoop down the hillside, The Cyclists. Seeming dark-plumaged Birds, after carrion, Careening and circling, Over the dying Of England. She lies with her bosom Beneath them, no longer The Dominant Mother, The Virile -- but rotting Before time. The smell of her, tainted, Has bitten their nostrils. Exultant they hover, And shadow the sun with Foreboding.
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