To the South lands, the green lands, where
the flowers of fruit
Are moons entangled in cosmic trees,
Where birds are rocks in the foam of seas,
The wind's a player, the grass a lute
Whose wires are swept by the wings of bees,
—The South green lands!
To the South lands, the green lands—but
halt, O hark!
A sob of birds in a poisoned wood!
The fume of poppies crushed foul in mud!
The whine of the wings of Death through the dark!
A sunset of flame, a moon of blood!
—The South red lands!
THE NEW TRADE
In the market-places they have made
A dolorous new trade.
Now you will see in the fierce naphtha-light,
Piled hideously to sight,
Dead limbs of men bronzed in the over-seas,
Bomb-wrenched from elbows and knees;
Torn feet, that would, unwearied by harsh loads,
Have tramped steep moorland roads;
Torn hands that would have moulded exquisitely
Rare things for God to see.
And there are eyes there—blue like blue doves' wings,
Black like the Libyan kings,
Grey as before-dawn rivers, willow-stirred,
Brown as a singing-bird;
But all stare from the dark into the dark,
Reproachful, tense, and stark.
Eyes heaped on trays and in broad baskets there,
Feet, hands, and ropes of hair.
In the market-places ... and women buy ...
... Naphtha glares ... hawkers cry ...
Fat men rub hands....
O God, O just God, send
Plague, lightnings ...
Make an end!
THE WOMAN WHO SHRIEKED AGAINST PEACE
Abundant woman panting there,
Whose breast is flecked with spots of grease
That splutter from your laboured hair,
O dew-lapped woman, you who reek
Of stout and steak and fish and chips,
Why does the short indignant shriek
Come toppling from your fleshy lips;
Because, poor smitten fool, I dare
To breathe the outcast name of Peace?
And shall your flesh grow less to view,
And shall your chubby arms grow thin,
And shall you miss your stout and stew,
The bracelets which you wear so well,
If blinded boys no more shall creep
Along the scorching roads to Hell,
If thick red blood no more shall steep
Green fields in France, nor corpses smell;
If Peace send down her blasting blight,
O shall it spoil your sleep at night,
And shall you lose your treble chin?