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?
