An Explanation
WHEN the pillars of smoke, that towered between heaven and earth
On the day we died, have thinned in the wind and drifted
And the hooded crow flaps home across the volcanic sky,
Somewhere beyond and below the littered horizon
(O from what green and golden island?)
Man, I suppose, will emerge and grow wise and read
What we have written in guilt, again with an innocent eye.
On the day we died, have thinned in the wind and drifted
And the hooded crow flaps home across the volcanic sky,
Somewhere beyond and below the littered horizon
(O from what green and golden island?)
Man, I suppose, will emerge and grow wise and read
What we have written in guilt, again with an innocent eye.
Then, if the desperate song we sang like stormcocks
At the first flash, survives the ultimate thunder
To be dreamily misunderstood by the children of quieter men,
Remember that we who lived in the creeping shadow
(Dark over woodland, cloud and water)
Looked upon Beauty always as though for the last time
And loved all things the more, that might never be seen again;
At the first flash, survives the ultimate thunder
To be dreamily misunderstood by the children of quieter men,
Remember that we who lived in the creeping shadow
(Dark over woodland, cloud and water)
Looked upon Beauty always as though for the last time
And loved all things the more, that might never be seen again;
Who chewed the leaf, uncertain of seeing the hawthorn
Scatter its stars the length of a lane in summer,
Or fingered the sparrow’s egg that might never be born a bird;
And wondered, even, whether the windflaw moving
Silently over the water’s surface
Should gain the distant edge of the lake in safety
Before the inferno struck, whose echoes shall never be heard.
Scatter its stars the length of a lane in summer,
Or fingered the sparrow’s egg that might never be born a bird;
And wondered, even, whether the windflaw moving
Silently over the water’s surface
Should gain the distant edge of the lake in safety
Before the inferno struck, whose echoes shall never be heard.
I sing to a boy unborn and unbegotten,
Who have no war-song, now, for his huddled fathers
In the lost light awaiting their time of eternal cold.
I know, I know that a legion of singers before us
Looked their last on much that was lovely
And perished as we must perish. But who will remember
That most of them wept and died only because they were old?
Who have no war-song, now, for his huddled fathers
In the lost light awaiting their time of eternal cold.
I know, I know that a legion of singers before us
Looked their last on much that was lovely
And perished as we must perish. But who will remember
That most of them wept and died only because they were old?