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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.

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Added: Feb 1 2004 | Viewed: 4829 times | Comments and analysis of The Cyclists by Amy Lowell Comments (0)

The Cyclists - Comments and Information

Poet: Amy Lowell
Poem: 3. The Cyclists
Volume: Sword Blades & Poppy Seed
- Sword Blades
Poem of the Day: Dec 7 2013
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