I 

Last year I called this world of gain-givings 
The darkest thinkable, and questioned sadly 
If my own land could heave its pulse less gladly, 
So charged it seemed with circumstance whence springs 
   The tragedy of things. 

II 

Yet at that censured time no heart was rent 
Or feature blanched of parent, wife, or daughter 
By hourly blazoned sheets of listed slaughter; 
Death waited Nature's wont; Peace smiled unshent 
   From Ind to Occident. 

Added: Apr 1 2005 | Viewed: 1102 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Thomas Hardy
Poem: At the War Office, London

Year: Published/Written in 1899
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