The Pylons – Stephen Spender

The secret of these hills was stone, and cottages

Of that stone made,

And crumbling roads

That turned on sudden hidden villages.



Now over these small hills, they have built the concrete

That trails black wire;

Pylons, those pillars

Bare like nude giant girls that have no secret.



The valley with its gilt and evening look

And the green chestnut

Of customary root,

Are mocked dry like the parched bed of a brook.



But far above and far as sight endures

Like whips of anger

With lightning's danger

There runs the quick perspective of the future.



This dwarfs our emerald country by its trek

So tall with prophecy:

Dreaming of cities

Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.