Country At War.

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