The Poets & The War XXX
If once we feared that Fear itself might come,
A lodger with a retinue of slaves,
(Despair, misgiving, doubt, and other knaves)
To make within our soul their shameful home,
Like some dishonourable malady
Concealed from all but our own private knowing.
Our one concern that there should be no showing
Of fear of Fear, that worst worm enemy,
– Now that our danger rises like the sun
Chasing all thin confusing mists away,
How fine, how proud, our wings of courage sweep
Clear as a sea-gull for each separate one,
Posing ourselves above our island spray
Around the bastions of our lonely keep.
– The Observer