Here our days are nameless time all misnumbered
Right where Mr. Yeats wanted so much to be
Moving to the call of bell and semantron,
rites and ceremonies
Bright hard-colored tidiness Arthur Rackham world
(no soil or mulch or mud)
Everything boiled and laundered and dry-cleaned
And probably inhabited by that race of
scrubbed and polished men
who drive the dairy trucks of San Francisco