English poem
The Rainbow
by Leslie Coulson (1889–1916)
I WATCH the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of hidden guns. I hear the hot shells scream Through skies as sweet as a dream Where the silver dawnbreak runs, And stabbing of light Scorches the virginal white. But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill, And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still.
From death that hurtles by I crouch in the trench day-long, But up in the cloudless sky
From the ground where our dead men lie A brown lark soars in song. Through the tortured air Rent by the shrapnel's flare, Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill, And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still.
Where the parapet is low And level with the eye Poppies and cornflowers glow And the corn sways to and fro In a pattern against the sky. The gold stalks hide Bodies of men who died Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill, I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still.