The whole green sky is dying.  The last tree flares¹

    With a great burst of supernatural rose

    Under a canopy² of poisonous airs.

    Could we imagine our return to prayers

    To end in time before time's final throes，

    The green sky dying as the last tree flares？

    But we were young in judgement， old in years

    Who could make peace； but it was war we chose，

    To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

    Not all our children's pleas and women's fears

    Could steer³ us from this hell.  And now God knows

    His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

    Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares⁴.

    This dreadful century staggers to its close

    And the sky dies for us， its poisoned heirs.

    All rain was dust.  Its granules were our tears.

    Throats burst as universal winter rose

    To kill the whole green sky， the last tree bare

    Beneath its canopy of poisoned air.