Classic Poem

My soul goes there crying when
It is hurt by God far . . .
It is hurt too far, and moves again
By green and quarry scar.

Ages and ages dreaming there
Speak their heart to me—
Generations of tried men honour
My broken good with pity.

‘Such good’, they say, ‘your blood had
At birth, and in this
Land was given you music in mood
Noble, true, clamorous.

And what has broken England to such
Evil is not guessed
Nor those old sentries rustling grass rough
Know, nor the rest.

Soldier that knew war's pains, poet
That kept our love—
The gods have not saved you, it is not
Our prayers lacking to move

Them to you—deep in hells now still burning
For sleep or the end's peace.
By tears we have not saved you; yearning
To accusation, and our hopes' loss, turning.
What gods are these?’