In those-- this is called "The Cock and the Choir."
In those fine days the cock was in the choir.
The choristers were trembling in the leaves.
The song came out of wedlock with the weather,
but they were with seed.
Now to motionless silence, the counterpoint that
rose from throats exquisitely in tune,
that raised the mighty lever of the sun
while lust turned long, melodious unto noon.
All dead are dying.
Chanticleer, his wives, the warblers coaxing
up the rosy day, hid in their airy palaces of leaves,
are all taken away.
The wind will have to recall their delicate humming,
murmuring on the fingers of the bough.
How he boomed against them with his drumming
and shook their nave and whistled off their vows.