Wake Children Wake

Poor lady! She has eaten all the plums,
And they taste good to her. Yes, they taste good
To her. As I walked through the neighbourhood
Behind a wagon with a dead man, drums
Were not heard. Now, in rocky Actium's
Great bay we dreamed that dream you said we should,
In burning ships, made of such tender wood,
Danced naked in the north room, flapped our gums.

Wake, children, wake up to the bruit of friends,
Take variable feet and saxifrage,
All the accoutrements of middle age,
Old age, life, death, and fruitless hope that rends
Our wretched, cloud-wracked selves. So much depends
Upon a few words written on the page.