The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages
Of that stone made,
And crumbling roads
That turned on sudden hidden villages
Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete
That trails black wire
Pylons, those pillars
Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret.
The valley with its gilt and evening look
And the green chestnut
Of customary root,
Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.
But far above and far as sight endures
Like whips of anger
With lightning's danger
There runs the quick perspective of the future.
This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek
So tall with prophecy
Dreaming of cities
Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.
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Comments about this poem (The Pylons by Stephen Spender )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
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