Peace

And sometimes I am sorry when the grass

Is growing over the stones in quiet hollows

And the cocksfoot leans across the rutted cart-pass

That I am not the voice of country fellows

Who now are standing by some headland talking

Of turnips and potatoes or young corn

Of turf banks stripped for victory.

Here Peace is still hawking

His coloured combs and scarves and beads of horn.

Upon a headland by a whinny hedge

A hare sits looking down a leaf-lapped furrow

There's an old plough upside-down on a weedy ridge

And someone is shouldering home a saddle-harrow.

Out of that childhood country what fools climb

To fight with tyrants Love and Life and Time?