The banished thrush, the homeless rook
Share now the human exile’s woe.
Mourns not the forest felled, which took
Three hundred years to grow?
Grieve not those meadows scarred and cleft,
Mined with deep holes and reft of grass,
Gardens where not a flower is left,
Fouled streams, once clear as glass?
And yon green vale where Spring was found
Laughing among her daffodils…
Wind sweep it now; a battle-ground
Between two gun-swept hills.
Share now the human exile’s woe.
Mourns not the forest felled, which took
Three hundred years to grow?
Grieve not those meadows scarred and cleft,
Mined with deep holes and reft of grass,
Gardens where not a flower is left,
Fouled streams, once clear as glass?
And yon green vale where Spring was found
Laughing among her daffodils…
Wind sweep it now; a battle-ground
Between two gun-swept hills.
S Gertrude Ford
No comments:
Post a Comment