Текст оригинала на английском языке
There was a whispering in my hearth, A sigh of the coal. Grown wistful of a former earth It might recall. I listened for a tale of leaves And smothered ferns, Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives Before the fawns. My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer From Time's old cauldron, Before the birds made nests in summer, Or men had children. But the coals were murmuring of their mine, And moans down there Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men Writhing for air. And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard, Bones without number. For many hearts with coal are charred, And few remember. I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed. Comforted years will sit soft-chaired In rooms of amber; The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered By our lifes' ember. The centuries will burn rich loads With which we groaned, Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids, While songs are crooned. But they will not dream of us poor lads Left in the ground.
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