dreaming of cities

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 with its trek
So tall with prophecy:
Dreaming of cities
Where often clouds shall lean their swan-white neck.

—Stephen Spender (1909-1995), "The Pylons," from Poems, 1933.

I feel like Spender gets less attention from me by virtue of being the one of his set that's not Auden or Isherwood, but I like this poem a lot.