(For a Sick Generation)
Try tropic for your balm,
And after storm, calm.
Try snow of heaven, heavy, soft and slow,
Brilliant and warm.
Nothing will help, and nothing do much harm.
Drink iron from rare springs; follow the sun;
To get the beam of some medicinal star;
Or in your anguish run
The gauntlet of all zones to an ultimate one.
Fever and chill
Punish you still,
Earth has no zone to work against your ill.
Burn in the jewelled desert with the toad.
Of evening mist across your haunted face;
Or walk in upper air, the slanted road.
It will not lift that load;
Nor will large seas undo your subtle ill.
Nothing can cure and nothing kill
What ails your eyes, what cuts your pulse in two
And not kill you.