In our new planes, with our new crews, we bombed The ranges by the desert or the shore, Fired at towed targets, waited for our scores-- And turned into replacements and worke up One morning, over England, operational. It wasn't different: but if we died It was not an accident but a mistake (But an easy one for anyone to make.) We read our mail and counted up our missions-- In bombers named for girls, we burned The cities we had learned about in school-- Till our lives wore out; our bodies lay among The people we had killed and never seen. When we lasted long enough they gave us medals; When we died they said, "Our casualties were low." The said, "Here are the maps"; we burned the cities. It was not dying --no, not ever dying; But the night I died I dreamed that I was dead, And the cities said to me: "Why are you dying? We are satisfied, if you are; but why did I die?" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DUSK IN WAR TIME by SARA TEASDALE THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE by WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN THE LOVELINESS OF LOVE by GEORGE DARLEY SAMSON AGONISTES by JOHN MILTON A VOICE PROPHETIC by WALT WHITMAN TO THE STATES. TO IDENTIFY THE 16TH, 17TH, OR 18TH PRESIDENTIAD by WALT WHITMAN L'ALBUM D'UNE CANADIENNE by LEVI BISHOP |