In gravest, gravels of untouched soil, Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale, One statue of siege upon a windy foil, What mires meek airs in all you survey?
Like a frost of summers, you are lord, To hold that seed in your spiny face, Depressions of land your promontory, All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,
Beneath you, the grown motley fields Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender, Spiders and birds know you unyielding The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.