SEPTEMBER 3rd, 1939
I may be dead to-morrow
Bomb-splintered through the unrealising hand
Of some Fuhrer-driven member of the Nazi flock.
I am surprised there is no hate in me.
When I was a little child
The German-fear ate at my heart;
The great, grey-coated Hun,
Towering beneath his spiked steel,
Chased me (knee-joints locked) through every dream.
Now I only know that the fresh-faced, tawny-bodied youths,
With whom I wandered hand-in-hand
Along the pine-clad hills of Saxony,
Are broken-minded, driven into blood-lust.
When I have gathered the warm, white raspberries,
And picnicked on the shores of pine-girt lakes,
And laughed, and run in comradeship with these,
My heart can find no hate;
Only great sorrow at the wanton wastage,
The stifled hopes, and all life's high endeavour gone.
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