All winter long you listened for the boom 
Of distant cannon wheeled into their place. 
Sometimes outside beneath a bombers? moon 
You stood alone to watch the searchlights trace 


Their careful webs against the boding sky, 
While miles away on Munich?s vacant square 
The bombs lunged down with an unruly cry 
Whose blast you saw yet could but faintly hear. 


And might have turned your eyes upon the gleam 
Of a thousand years of snow, where near the clouds 
The Alps ride massive to their full extreme, 
And season after season glacier crowds 


The dark, persistent smudge of conifers. 
Or seen beyond the hedge and through the trees 
The shadowy forms of cattle on the furze, 
Their dim coats white with mist against the freeze. 


Or thought instead of other times than these, 
Of other countries and of other sights: 
Eternal Venice sinking by degrees 
Into the very water that she lights; 


Reflected in canals, the lucid dome 
Of Maria della Salute at your feet, 
Her triple spires disfigured by the foam. 
Remembered in Berlin the parks, the neat 


Footpaths and lawns, the clean spring foliage, 
Where just short weeks before, a bomb, unaimed, 
Released a frightened lion from its cage, 
Which in the mottled dark that trees enflamed 


Killed one who hurried homeward from the raid. 
And by yourself there standing in the chill 
You must, with so much known, have been afraid 
And chosen such a mind of constant will, 


Which, though all time corrode with constant hurt, 
Remains, until it occupies no space, 
That which it is; and passionless, inert, 
Becomes at last no meaning and no place.