The rhymes in the treesnAre old and diseased,nBut, oh, they sound so pretty to me.nnThe children wait in linenWith jars of alkalinenTo place at the feet of the Glorious Spine.nnAll the little crimesnThat brighten their livesnMade them dancenLike widows againstnAn iridescent skynWhere the oceans collidenAnd shower the landnWith fire againnnThe minions of the windnCough and spin,nRattle the cages of the invalids.nnThe convalescing rhymesnEmbalm their own mindsnAnd take to the waves of an infinite sea.nnAll the little crimes that brighten their livesnMade them dance like widows againstnAn iridescent sky where the oceans collidenAnd shower the land with fire again.