The clouds are heavy with a yellow weight,
That does not break in gray or silver streaks;
But falls like hammer-strikes of ancient fate,
Upon the valley and the mountain peaks.
The thirsty flowers do not drink the light,
But bend beneath the hardening of the leaf;
The forest is a garden, burning bright,
In gilded armor and in golden grief.
A beggar reaches for the falling prize,
To find his palms are burned by molten heat;
The riches of the monumental skies,
Are scattered like a fire at his feet.
The world is wealthy, motionless, and cold,
Beneath the heavy blessing of the gold.
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