The Hollow Days

The hollow days, merrily unwell,

The day’s dew droplets didn’t shine--

The hollow days, and the hollow days;

This is the purports of the Desert,

The sandy days, no more growing,

The eternal vestiges of Time,

Falling in the empty, glass-shell,

In ways new copulations find--

The hollow days, and the hollow days;

These are the sub-ports in the sewer,

The working Men, no more knowing,

The Fraternal edifice and Shrine;

Then rang a Mountain Bell,

The rays few and ringing climbs—

The hollow days, and the hollow days.

The ragged men and the swelling,

Form that ancient Spider’s webbing,

And this weaves in the Great Defiance;

Brazen-designed, Artesian well,

Unplowed fields dusty in clime,

And these, these are the Hollow Days,

There is turmoil in the Brewer,

The plastic people are melting,

Forgetful in the struggle and Rhyme;

There are no more stories to tell--

The saddened days; lonely time;

And these, these are the Hollow Days:

These are the days we die,

These are the days we die,

These are the days we die,

The Hollow days, and the Holidays;

The living days, and the Hallowed ways

The Hollow days anon the Hollow days:

These are the days we die,

Not by the hand never surmised,

But, by the Stand we did not abide.