  On the Fourth of July sky rockets went up Over the church and the trees and the town, Stripes and stars, riding red cars. Each rocket wore a red-white-and-blue gown, And I did not see one rocket come down. Next day on the hill I found dead sticks, Scorched like blown-out candle-wicks. But where are the rockets? Up in the sky. As for the sticks, let them lie. Dead sticks are not the Fourth of July. In Saturn they grow like wonderful weeds, In some ways like weeds of ours, Twisted and beautiful, straight and awry, But nodding all day to the heavenly powers. The stalks are smoke, And the blossoms green light, And crystalline fireworks flowers. |
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