I

A lonely camp and small amidst the miles Of the Westphalian plain, where islanded In the green waste our simple lives are led Out of the troubled world. Here morning smiles Splendidly, and the mustering twilight wiles To a strange sense of peace consummated Over these low-hung woods, where setting red And oval the sun the yearning eye beguiles. Then as the white and sheeted vapour steals Along the flats lagoon-like, comes a breath Of anguish from the void, where still is hurled Nation on nation; and the spirit feels A tidal presence of o’erwhelming death Stir through this weird backwater of the world.

HESEPE, 19th May