American Soldiers Driving Trucks In England 1944
Foreign to the Land, friendly Land.
Unmolested. Purely on the preparations
For their War
Ride hardfaced, intent, on business
The wide world around them, the
Innumerable fancies of their hosts
The Englishman’s bric-a-brac of his buildings
What lure is there? To what clear table
Of time’s division do they run
Do the horrors of their future battles
Already rage about them? Does
Imagination step up the temper
Of the peaceful land they cross
But do not see?
To live in War with War the master
Peace so far behind there’s no hope there
The worst or best of impact yet to come.
They have no eyes or hearts to use
The luxury of sentiment, the concentration
Of the mind on half wrought beauty
To complete it.
They have no way to that
Theirs is the trance-life’s treason.