Running through the wheatfields,
With the last of the woods laid low,
Our company heard a cuckoo,
In lament we rose to sow.
A mist from our boughs ascended,
Out of daylight a moon shone clear,
A stain from the sky descended,
And the flood crept slowly near.
No ark has come to save us,
Not a branch or political wave,
But castles in the sky are sailing,
With the wind of yellow brick days.