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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374341" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Zonnebeke Road</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Morning, if this late withered light can claim<br>Some kindred with that merry flame<br>Which the young day was wont to fling through space!<br>Agony stares from each grey face.<br>And yet the day is come; stand down! stand down!<br>Your hands unclasp from rifles while you can;<br>The frost has pierced them to the bended bone?<br>Why see old Stevens there, that iron man,<br>Melting the ice to shave his grotesque chin!<br>Go ask him,, shall we win?<br>I never likes this bay, some foolish fear<br>Caught me the first time that I came here;<br>That dugout fallen in awakes, perhaps<br>Some formless haunting of some corpse's chaps.<br>True, and wherever we have held the line,<br>There were such corners, seeming-saturnine<br>For no good cause.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now where the Haymarket starts,<br>There is no place for soldiers with weak hearts;<br>The minenwerfers have it to the inch.<br>Look, how the snow-dust whisks along the road<br>Piteous and silly; the stones themselves must flinch<br>In this east wind; the low sky like a load<br>Hangs over, a dead-weight. But what a pain<br>Must gnaw where its clay cheek<br>Crushes the shell-chopped trees that fang the plain –<br>The ice-bound throat gulps out a gargoyle shriek.<br>That wretched wire before the village line<br>Rattles like rusty brambles on dead bine,<br>And there the daylight oozes into dun;<br>Black pillars, those are trees where roadways run<br>Even Ypres now would warm our souls; fond fool,<br>Our tour's but one night old, seven more to cool!<br>O screaming dumbness, o dull clashing death,<br>Shreds of dead grass and willows, homes and men,<br>Watch as you will, men clench their chattering teeth<br>And freeze you back with that one hope, disdain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edmund+Blunden">Edmund Blunden</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374341" data-title="The Zonnebeke Road de Edmund Blunden" data-description="Morning, if this late withered light can claim
Some kindred with that merry flame
Which the young day was wont to fling through space!
Agony stares from each grey face.
And yet the day is come; stand down! stand down!
Your hands unclasp from rifle..."></div>
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