Low and brown barns, thatched and repatched and tattered, <br />Where I had seven sons until to-day, <br />A little hill of hay your spur has scattered. . . . <br />This is not Paris. You have lost your way. <br /> <br />You, staring at your sword to find it brittle, <br />Surprised at the surprise that was your plan, <br />Who, shaking and breaking barriers not a little, <br />Find never more the death-door of Sedan -- <br /> <br />Must I for more than carnage call you claimant, <br />Paying you a penny for each son you slay? <br />Man, the whole globe in gold were no repayment <br />For what you have lost. And how shall I repay? <br /> <br />What is the price of that red spark that caught me <br />From a kind farm that never had a name? <br />What is the price of that dead man they brought me? <br />For other dead men do not look the same. <br /> <br />How should I pay for one poor graven steeple <br />Whereon you shattered what you shall not know? <br />How should I pay you, miserable people? <br />How should I pay you everything you owe? <br /> <br />Unhappy, can I give you back your honour? <br />Though I forgave, would any man forget? <br />While all the great green land has trampled on her <br />The treason and terror of the night we met. <br /> <br />Not any more in vengeance or in pardon <br />An old wife bargains for a bean that's hers. <br />You have no word to break: no heart to harden. <br />Ride on and prosper. You have lost your spurs.<br /><br />Gilbert Keith Chesterton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wife-of-flanders-2/
