War-time by Frank Stuart Flint — Read

If I go out of the door, / it will not be / to take the road to the left that leads / past the bovine quiet of houses / brooding over the cud of their daily content, / even though / the tranquillity of their gardens / is a lure that once was stronger; even though / from privet hedge and mottled laurel / the young green peeps, / and the daffodils / and the yellow and white and purple crocuses / laugh from the smooth mould / of the garden beds / to the upright golden buds of the chestnut trees.

I shall not see / the almond blossom shaming / the soot-black boughs.

But to the right the road will lead me / to greater and greater disquiet; into the swift rattling noise of the motor-'busses, / and the dust, the tattered paper-- / the detritus of a city-- / that swirls in the air behind them.

I will pass the shops where the prices / are judged day by day by the people, / and come to the place where five roads meet / with five tram-routes, and where amid the din / of the vans, the lorries, the motor-'busses, / the clangorous tram-cars, / the news is shouted, / and soldiers gather, off-duty.

Here I can feel the heat of Europe's fever; / and I can make, / as each man makes the beauty of the woman he loves, / no spring and no woman's beauty, / while that is burning.