War-Time

If I go out of the door, it will not be to take the road to the left that leads past the bovine quiet of houses brooding over the cud of their daily content, even though the tranquillity of their gardens is a lure that once was stronger; even though from privet hedge and mottled laurel the young green peeps, and the daffodils and the yellow and white and purple crocuses laugh from the smooth mould of the garden beds to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees. I shall not see the almond blossom shaming the soot-black boughs.

But to the right the road will lead me to greater and greater disquiet; into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses, and the dust, the tattered paper-- the detritus of a city-- that swirls in the air behind them. I will pass the shops where the prices are judged day by day by the people, and come to the place where five roads meet with five tram-routes, and where amid the din of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses, the clangorous tram-cars, the news is shouted, and soldiers gather, off-duty.

Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever; and I can make, as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves, no spring and no woman's beauty, while that is burning.