Ed, I especially love this last stanza -
Nothing to do but keep
The body beaten down,
The clothing clean and frayed.
Nothing to do but drown
The blood in its own sleep,
And bid the heart lie dead.
The meter reminds me of the Mew I posted -
Wait with their old wise patience for the heavenly rain,
Sure of the sky: sure of the sea to send its healing breeze,
Sure of the sun, and even as to these
Surely the Spring, when God shall please,
Will come again like a divine surprise
Perhaps this is the rhythm of quiet despair. I've often thought that the main reason I read and write poems is for comfort. Like Suzanne, I've known a lot of despair, and poems were often my only comfort. Petra said the Mew poem sounds hopeful; I'm not so sure. I think it's a poem that captures a despairing poet attempting to comfort herself. Since the poem is about WWI, Mew is also attempting to comfort the victims of war.
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