Poems From "A Shropshire Lad" - XXVIII - The Welsh Marches

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleam     Islanded in Severn stream;     The bridges from the steepled crest     Cross the water east and west.     The flag of morn in conqueror's state     Enters at the English gate:     The vanquished eve, as night prevails,     Bleeds upon the road to Wales.     Ages since the vanquished bled     Round my mother's marriage-bed;     There the ravens feasted far     About the open house of war:     When Severn down to Buildwas ran     Coloured with the death of man,     Couched upon her brother's grave     The Saxon got me on the slave.     The sound of fight is silent long     That began the ancient wrong;     Long the voice of tears is still     That wept of old the endless ill.     In my heart it has not died,     The war that sleeps on Severn side;     They cease not fighting, east and west,     On the marches of my breast.     Here the truceless armies yet     Trample, rolled in blood and sweat;     They kill and kill and never die;     And I think that each is I.     None will part us, none undo     The knot that makes one flesh of two,     Sick with hatred, sick with pain,     Strangling-When shall we be slain?     When shall I be dead and rid     Of the wrong my father did?     How long, how long, till spade and hearse     Put to sleep my mother's curse?