We shall not speak of triumph when the tale is told
Nor lift our eyes to some immortal flame.
Our hearts are in the shelters where the long hours gave
A greater power to some quite common name.
We shall not build our arches for another year
Nor stand in silence while a poet prays.
Our monuments have corrugated sides – and bunks.
An atmosphere of strength for all our days.
While England lives who marks a twisted cross,
And gods erupted from a pagan night,
Our little folk have taken up a load
And borne it to the edges of the light.
And He whose hands were bloody for a law
Will see a crown of laurel on her head,
The haggard, stricken nervous Mrs. Smith
Who grinned while making shelter bunk her bed.
– The Star