When the quiet acres I look upon were shaken— Not by a drum-pulse quickening the hand But sinisterly, sourly, by factory sirens taken Into the service of A.R.P.'s command— Quietly the men there engaged in turnip-hoeing, Glancing to skyward, weatherwise and calm, Deftly continued to thin the farmer's sowing, Saw the hurrying wardens and spat upon their palm. Would I had their wisdom and faith each waiting day ... Not seed-time and harvest, but wars, shall pass away. |