poetry poem

the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
there is a city, builded by no hand
with lips blood red and heart of stone
roses and gold
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
high-born race
wheel me down by the meadow
it was the autumn of the year
and breaketh bread no more
by the rude bridge
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
as i lie roofed in, screened in