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.