by ERIC WILSON BARKER
You were the ominous Cloud-Mouth that foretold,
With Eden’s closing, how all gates would close
On gardens where the trees of pleasure grew.
You were the doom through Joshua’s trumpets rolled;
Goliath’s ruin waiting in a brook;
Lot’s wife’s salt-glazing, backward-turning look;
That Christ-forgetting tree Iscariot chose.
You were the sum Ecclesiastes knew,
Who loved Fall’s rusting drift, its homing sound,
And the Dark Lover waiting in the ground.