Robert Laurence Binyon (Роберт Лоренс Биньон)

Ypres

She was a city of patience; of proud name,
Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;
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.

1. One Year Old
2. Men of Verdun
3. The Way Home
4. Beautifully Dies the Year
5. As in the Dusty Lane to Fern or Flower

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Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1875

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