Peace

And sometimes I am sorry when the

Is growing over the stones in quiet

And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted

That I am not the voice of country

Who now are standing by some headland

Of turnips and potatoes or young

Of turf banks stripped for victory.

Here Peace is still hawking His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.

Upon a headland by a whinny hedge A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped

There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy

And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.

Out of that childhood country what fools

To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?