Genesis Again

THE little ark rides restless on the flood
Where Tyre’s spires climbed. The hills arc flat;
And Babylon lies pool-interred in blood . . .
How many leagues, O Lord, to Ararat ?
The calf, the leggy foal, the weanling lambs
That never knew a meadow — stall-confined
And cabin-peevish, butt against their dams;
The suckling fawn turns fretful from the hind.
Laconic broods the lark. Against oak beams
The eagle wounds his pinions, mad for sun;
Dejected on a naked rafter dreams
The cedarbird, rememb’ring Lebanon.
And wearily across the wastes of grief
The dove returns, wdthout the olive leaf.