Wallace Stevens - A Postcard from the Volcano lyrics

Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill

And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost

And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt

At what we saw the spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion house
Beyond our gate and the windy sky

Cries out a literate despair
We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became

A part of what it is children
Still weaving budded aureoles
Will speak our speech and never know

Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls

A dirty house in a gutted world
A tatter of shadows peaked to white
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun