HERE at the country inn, <br /> I lie in my quiet bed, <br />And the ardent onrush of armies <br /> Throbs and throbs in my head. <br /> <br />Why, in this calm, sweet place, <br /> Where only silence is heard, <br />Am I ware of the crash of conflict,— <br /> Is my blood to battle stirred? <br /> <br />Without, the night is blessed <br /> With the smell of pines, with stars; <br />Within, is the mood of slumber, <br /> The healing of daytime scars. <br /> <br />’T is strange,—yet I am thrall <br /> To epic agonies; <br />The tumult of myriads dying <br /> Is borne to me on the breeze. <br /> <br />Mayhap in the long ago <br /> My forefather grim and stark <br />Stood in some hell of carnage, <br /> Faced forward, fell in the dark; <br /> <br />And I, who have always known <br /> Peace with her dove-like ways, <br />Am gripped by his martial spirit <br /> Here in the after days. <br /> <br />I cannot rightly tell: <br /> I lie, from all stress apart, <br />And the ardent onrush of armies <br /> Surges hot through my heart.<br /><br />Richard Francis Burton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-forefather/
