Of acquiescence in the creeping moss. But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across, She rose, dead, into never-dying fame. White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave Sleep round her. Desolately glorified, She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone, Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave. The Pity of It (Laurence Binyon) I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss. But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across, She rose, dead, into never-dying fame. White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave Sleep round her. Desolately glorified, She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone, Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave. The Pity of It (Laurence Binyon) I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
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