Here is a lovely, if oddly punctuated, poem by Laurie Lee. Not only underrated, but hardly known as a poet.
The Evening, the Heather
The evening, the heather,
the unsecretive cuckoo
and butterflies in their disorder,
not a word of war as we lie
our mouths in a hot nest
and the flowers advancing.
Does a hill defend itself,
does a river run to earth
to hide its quaint neutrality?
A boy is shot with England in his brain,
but she lies brazen yet beneath the sun,
she has no honour and she has no fear.
I would have punctuated it thus:
The Evening, the Heather
The evening, the heather,
the unsecretive cuckoo
and butterflies in their disorder;
not a word of war as we lie,
our mouths in a hot nest
and the flowers advancing.
Does a hill defend itself?
Does a river run to earth
to hide its quaint neutrality?
A boy is shot with England in his brain,
but she lies brazen yet beneath the sun.
She has no honour and she has no fear.
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