The Doves

We'll rid us of the pigeons — A city's edict ran; Apt soilers of our parapets, The pouter and the fan.

Each roof a drift of feathers; On Trinity they lean ; The Chrysler but a cooer's haunt — The Woolworth, Gretna Green.

We rid us of the pigeons, A poison paste was fed; The wagons rolled, the children heard The cry: "Bring out your dead."

They bore them forth in clusters, In wreaths they laid them down ; The tumbrils looked like Easter dawn When lilies come to town.

Old bells in empty turrets Have canceled one refrain; Their voices failed a whirling cloud That never comes again.

And in a whited city, Inscriptions show at dark: Time grew so clean it slaughtered here The dove that graced the Ark.