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Poem by Amy Lowell


The Cyclists


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.



Amy Lowell


Amy Lowell's other poems:
  1. The Bungler
  2. The Fool Errant
  3. The Boston Athenaeum
  4. The Painter on Silk
  5. The Fruit Shop


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