The Pity of It
I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar
From rail—track and from highway, and I heard
In field and farmstead many an ancient word
Of local lineage like “Thu bist,” "Er war,”
“Ich woll,” “Er sholl,” and by—talk similar,
Nigh as they speak who in this month’s moon gird
At England’s very loins, thereunto spurred
By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.
Then seemed a Heart crying: “Whosoever they be
At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame
Between folk kin tongued even as are we,
”Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;
May their familiars grow to shun their name,
And their brood perish everlastingly."
