An Appreciation, 1940
The Poets & The War XLI
We shall not speak of triumph when the tale is told
Nor lift our eyes to some immortal flame.
Our hearts are in the shelters where the long hours gave
A greater power to some quite common name.
We shall not build our arches for another year
Nor stand in silence while a poet prays.
Our monuments have corrugated sides – and bunks.
An atmosphere of strength for all our days.
While England lives who marks a twisted cross,
And gods erupted from a pagan night,
Our little folk have taken up a load
And borne it to the edges of the light.
And He whose hands were bloody for a law
Will see a crown of laurel on her head,
The haggard, stricken nervous Mrs. Smith
Who grinned while making shelter bunk her bed.
– The Star