Now If The Harvest Is Over, And

Hymns Are The Poetry Of The People.

And Behind Their Frail Partitions Business Women Lie And Soak, Seeing Through The Draughty Skylight Flying Clouds And Railway Smoke. Rest You There, Poor Unbelov'd Ones, Lap Your Loneliness In Heat, All Too Soon The Tiny Breakfast, Trolley-bus And Windy Street!

Imprisoned In A Cage Of Sound, Even The Trivial Seems Profound

Gracious Lord, Oh Bomb The Germans. Spare Their Women For Thy Sake, And If That Is Not Too Easy, We Will Pardon Thy Mistake. But, Gracious Lord, Whate'er Shall Be, Don't Let Anyone Bomb Me.

One Mark Of Good Verse Is Surprise