And what of home--how goes it, boys, <br />While we die here in stench and noise? <br />'The hill stands up and hedges wind <br />Over the crest and drop behind; <br />Here swallows dip and wild things go <br />On peaceful errands to and fro <br />Across the sloping meadow floor, <br />And make no guess at blasting war. <br />In woods that fledge the round hill-shoulder <br />Leaves shoot and open, fall and moulder, <br />And shoot again. Meadows yet show <br />Alternate white of drifted snow <br />And daisies. Children play at shop, <br />Warm days, on the flat boulder-top, <br />With wildflower coinage, and the wares <br />Are bits of glass and unripe pears. <br />Crows perch upon the backs of sheep, <br />The wheat goes yellow: women reap, <br />Autumn winds ruffle brook and pond, <br />Flutter the hedge and fly beyond. <br />So the first things of nature run, <br />And stand not still for any one, <br />Contemptuous of the distant cry <br />Wherewith you harrow earth and sky. <br />And high French clouds, praying to be <br />Back, back in peace beyond the sea, <br />Where nature with accustomed round <br />Sweeps and garnishes the ground <br />With kindly beauty, warm or cold-- <br />Alternate seasons never old: <br />Heathen, how furiously you rage, <br />Cursing this blood and brimstone age, <br />How furiously against your will <br />You kill and kill again, and kill: <br />All thought of peace behind you cast, <br />Till like small boys with fear aghast, <br />Each cries for God to understand, <br />'I could not help it, it was my hand.''<br /><br />Robert Graves<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/country-at-war/
