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Robert Laurence Binyon - The Pity Of It
Work rating: Low

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."
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