She was a city of patience; of proud name, <br />Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss; <br />Of acquiescence in the creeping moss. <br />But on a sudden fierce destruction came <br />Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame <br />Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss <br />Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across, <br />She rose, dead, into never-dying fame. <br />White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known <br />To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave <br />Sleep round her. Desolately glorified, <br />She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide <br />Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone, <br />Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-ypres/
