Читать книгу The Searchlights - Wilfrid Wilson Gibson - Страница 7
The Yews
ОглавлениеIn the dark room from which the unclipt yews
About the window half shut out the light
The old man listens to the evening news
That tells once more how men still fight and fight—
The old man listens, staring at the blaze
Of beechlogs on the hearth, yet hardly hears,
As his mind drops back into earlier days
And he recalls those other evil years—
Those four long years of nightmare when he fought,
Himself, in the war that was to end all war
In a world, already in new conflict caught
And threatened with destruction as never before.
Then, as the news ends, in his chair he turns
And switches off the wireless; when he sees
A picture that again in memory burns
On the windowglass, backed by the dark yewtrees,
Rekindled ...
Rekindled ...And, once more, across the mire
Of Flanders floundering to the assault,
He urges on his men through bristling wire;
When he is instantly brought to a halt
And his heart almost stops beating, as his eyes
Light on a body in the deadly strands
Entangled; and his friend before him lies
With his machine-gun still clutched in his hands—
Dead hands, that, living, in old days had wrought
Such beauty, chiselling from stone a rare
Spiritual entity beyond all thought—
Hands that had only dropt their tools, to dare
All hazards in the fight for lasting peace,
Peace that eludes men yet ...
Peace that eludes men yet ...Though from his sight
The picture fades, still on the dark yewtrees
He gazes till they merge into the night.
