Last Hill In A Vista

Come, let us tell the weeds in ditches

How we are poor, who once had riches,

And lie out in the sparse and sodden

Pastures that the cows have trodden,

The while an autumn night seals down

The comforts of the wooden town.

Come, let us counsel some cold stranger

How we sought safety, but loved danger.

So, with stiff walls about us, we

Chose this more fragile boundary:

Hills, where light poplars, the firm oak,

Loosen into a little smoke.