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

Completely bent.

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

Set faced?

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.