For busts … and plaques … and effigies …
And figures carved in stone …
Tremendous tombs of Kings …
Are not cathedral furniture.
Here stand the dreams of men
Articulate in stone.
Honour made manifest;
The shadow of the Grail
Falls like a silver whisper in this place.
You wrote:
"The Abbey pillars are worn smooth …"
And I could see the valour in your face!
Blood Donor Clinic 10 a.m.
They file through the door,
They include men who look like ex-football players,
Big men, little men,
Men who have climbed down off coal trucks,
Bond salesmen, men in uniform,
Sailors on leave from minesweepers,
Whole men,
And men who have lost an arm or a leg in the last war,
Who cannot fight in this one,
Who remember what transfusions mean.
Blind men have come
Who make little jokes
About the "pretty nurse".
It takes a few minutes;
A few minutes stretched comfortably out on a cot
With your heart-beats measuring
Drop by drop the gift you give
To keep some soul alive.
It takes a few minutes out of a single day
To make you one of the vast army
Back of the fighting army.
It takes a few minutes
But because of that few minutes
Soldiers and sailors and flyers
Are going to come back after this war
Who couldn't come back
Without that "gift".
It means mothers and children,
Terribly hurt when bombs rained down,
Are going to live to forget those anxious days,
And laugh again, and breathe the air of quiet England.
It means that you have given something
Money couldn't buy.
The "quality of mercy", Shakespeare said.
It takes a few minutes
But it lets you in on a miracle!
Promise