No weekends for the gods now. Wars
flicker, earth licks its open sores,
fresh breakage, fresh promotions, chance
assassinations, no advance.
Only man thinning out his own kind
sounds through the Sabbath noon, the blind
swipe of the pruner and his knife
busy about the tree of life...

Pity the planet, all joy gone
from this sweet volcanic cone;
peace to our children when they fall
in small war on the heels of small
war - until the end of time
to police th eearth, a ghost
orbiting forever lost
in our monotonous sublime.

Author: Robert Lowell