Long leagues on either hand the trenches spread <br />And all is still; now even this gross line <br />Drinks in the frosty silences divine <br />The pale, green moon is riding overhead. <br /> <br />The jaws of a sacked village, stark and grim; <br />Out on the ridge have swallowed up the sun, <br />And in one angry streak his blood has run <br />To left and right along the horizon dim. <br /> <br />There comes a buzzing plane: and now, it seems <br />Flies straight into the moon. Lo! where he steers <br />Across the pallid globe and surely nears <br />In that white land some harbour of dear dreams! <br /> <br />False mocking fancy! Once I too could dream, <br />Who now can only see with vulgar eye <br />That he’s no nearer to the moon than I <br />And she’s a stone that catches the sun’s beam. <br /> <br />What call have I to dream of anything? <br />I am a wolf. Back to the world again, <br />And speech of fellow-brutes that once were men <br />Our throats can bark for slaughter: cannot sing.<br /><br />Clive Staples Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/french-nocturne-monchy-le-preux/
