T.S. Eliot - Ode lyrics

To you particularly, and to all the Volscians Great hurt and mischief. Tired. Subterrene laughter synchronous With silence from the sacred wood And bubbling of the uninspired Mephitic river. Misunderstood The accents of the now retired Profession of the calamus. Tortured. When the bridegroom smoothed his hair There was blood upon the bed. Morning was already late. Children singing in the orchard (Io Hymen, Hymenaee) Succuba eviscerate. Tortuous. By arrangement with Perseus The fooled resentment of the dragon Sailing before the wind at dawn Golden apocalypse. Indignant At the cheap extinction of his taking-off. Now lies he there Tip to tip washed beneath Charles' Wagon.