The Armoured Valley

Across the armoured valley trenched with light,

cuckoos pump forth their salvoes at the lark,

and blackbirds loud with nervous song and flight

shudder beneath the hawk’s reconnaissance:

Spring is upon us, and our hopes are dark.

For as the petal and the painted cheek

issue their tactless beauties to the hour,

we must ignore the budding sun and seek

to camouflage compassion and ourselves

against the wretched icicles of war.

No festival of love will turn our bones

to flutes of frolic in this month of May,

but tools of hate shall make them into guns

and bore them for the piercing bullet’s shout

and through their pipes drain all our blood away.

Yet though by sullen violence we are torn

from violet couches as the air grows sweet,

and by the brutal bugles of retreat

recalled to snows of death, yet Spring, repeat

your annual attack, pour through the breach

of some new heart your future victories.