We aged a hundred years and this descended

In just one hour, as at a stroke.

The summer had been brief and now was ended;

The body of the ploughed plains lay in smoke.

 

The hushed road burst in colours then, a soaring

Lament rose, ringing silver like a bell.

And so I covered up my face, imploring

God to destroy me before battle fell.

 

And from my memory the shadows vanished

Of songs and passions—burdens I’d not need.

The Almighty bade it be—with all else banished—

A book of portents terrible to read.

 
 

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