Classic Poem

Here no dreams touch me to colour
Sodden state of all-dolour:
No touch of peace, no creation
Felt, nor stir of divination.

Friend of stars, things, inky pages—
Knowing so many heritages
Of Britain old, or Roman newer;
Here all witchcrafts scar and skewer.

Coloured maps of Europe taking
And words of poets fine in making,
I march once more with hurt shoulders,
And scent the air, a friend with soldiers.

Devil's doom that none guess,
Evil's harms worshipped no less,
Grind my soul—and no god clutches
Out of darks god's-honour smutches.