Huxley, Aldous: Almeria

Winds have no moving emblems here, bud scour

A vacant darkness, un untempered ligth;

No branches bend, never a tortured flower

Shudders, root-weary, on the verge of fligth;

Winged future, withered past, no seeds nor leaves

Attest those swift invisible feet: they run

Free through a naked land, whose breast recived

All the fierce ardour of a naked sun.

You have the Ligth for lover. Fortunate Earth!

Conceive the fruit of his divine desire.

But the dry dust is all she brings to birth,

That child of clay by even celestial fire.

Then come, soft rain and tender clouds, abate

This shining love that has the force of hate.