Explore "The Guns in Sussex" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Light green of grass and richer green of bush / Slope upwards to the darkest green of fir. / How still! How deathly still! And yet the hush / Shivers and trembles with some subtle stir, / Some far-off throbbing like a muffled drum, / Beaten in broken rhythm oversea, / To play the last funereal march of some / Who die to-day that Europe may be free.
The deep-blue heaven, curving from the green, / Spans with its shimmering arch the flowery zone; / In all God's earth there is no gentler scene, / And yet I hear that awesome monotone. / Above the circling midge's piping shrill, / And the long droning of the questing bee, / Above all sultry summer sounds, it still / Mutters its ceaseless menaces to me.