THE MUTTER OF THE GUNS.

Press, Volume LXVIII, Issue 20552, 21 May 1932, Page 13

THE MUTTER OF THE GUNS.

» to tn zbitob or m psbss. Sir,—l think it was in October, 1917, that your paper published a beautiful little poem by Mr Pember Beeves, referring to the sound of the French guns heard in the peaceful greenness of England. Like Mr Pember Beeves, I lost an only son there. "Will yon, if possible, reprint the verses!—Yoara. etc., 1917. Lyttelton, May, 19th, 1932. [The poem—"Written on a Kentish Hilltop"—appeared in Tbb Psess on November Ist, 1917.] THE MUTTER OP THE GUNS. The laggard wakeful night hath brought a morning cool and brief; The sunlight sleeps upon the woods, jejhare Butters not a leaf. It it a Truce of God; yet hark, a murmur comes to me— The muttering of angry guns across the narrow sea. A few white clouds all motionless chequer the blue serene, The sheep, their wool dew-sprinkled yet, lie quiet on the green. . Only these slow, dull throbs repeat, like heavy news from far. The thunder of the deadly guns, that slay the sheep of war. Now like a low, fierce sob it sounds, a giant's panting breath. Who deals with long mechanic swing the fearful blows of death. ' Now, as when dead volcanoes wake and boiling fires are hurled, And listening cities catch afar the roar and shakes their world. Here 'neath the Blue and silver vault, where shining clouds are still, I walk, the sole heart-troubled thing on this untroubled hill. Seeing in this sweet silent scene of greem and golden plan The deep tranquillity of Life's indifference) to man. Mown like the grass, cut like the flower, quenched like wind-smitten light, Our laughing hero sons are gone—youth into ancient night; And the gods mourn, who gave them life, and hope of life for dower. As little as the mowers tall striding o'es> grass and flower. , They sleep, nor hear the guns, our bravA— The gods give rest; but we— Ours is the news that comes to kill across the careless sea. We, who to save had joyed to die, yet, jesting, hid our. tears. Stretch to the night fond, helpless hands and call the lost with tears. These hills that drink the sunlight in, these birds whose pipings flow— Like the high gods, they know not grief nor care where heroes go. But man—'twixt God and earth—can grieve: so I walk here apart. The thudding of the crsel guns still knocking on my heart.