Guns on the battle lines have pounded now a year between Brussels and Paris.
And, William Morris, when I read your old chapter on the great arches and naves and little whimsical corners of the Churches of Northern France—Brr-rr!
I’m glad you’re a dead man, William Morris, I’m glad you’re down in the damp and mouldy, only a memory instead of a living man—I’m glad you’re gone.
You never lied to us, William Morris, you loved the shape of those stones piled and carved for you to dream over and wonder because workmen got joy of life into them,
Workmen in aprons singing while they hammered, and praying, and putting their songs and prayers into the walls and roofs, the bastions and cornerstones and gargoyles—all their children and kisses of women and wheat and roses growing.
I say, William Morris, I’m glad you’re gone, I’m glad you’re a dead man.
Guns on the battle lines have pounded a year now between Brussels and Paris.
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