A Shropshire Lad/The Welsh Marches

by Alfred Edward Housman

XXVIII
The Welsh Marches

High the vanes of Shrewsbury gleamIslanded in Severn stream;The bridges from the steepled crestCross the water east and west.

The flag of morn in conqueror's stateEnters at the English gate:The vanquished eve, as night prevails,Bleeds upon the road to Wales.

Ages since the vanquished bledRound my mother's marriage-bed;There the ravens feasted farAbout the open house of war:

When Severn down to Buildwas ranColoured with the death of man,Couched upon her brother's graveThe Saxon got me on the slave.

The sound of fight is silent longThat began the ancient wrong;Long the voice of tears is stillThat wept of old the endless ill.

In my heart it has not died,The war that sleeps on Severn side;They cease not fighting, east and west,On the marches of my breast.

Here the truceless armies yetTrample, rolled in blood and sweat;They kill and kill and never die;And I think that each is I.

None will part us, none undoThe knot that makes one flesh of two,Sick with hatred, sick with pain,Strangling—When shall we be slain?

When shall I be dead and ridOf the wrong my father did?How long, how long, till spade and hearsePut to sleep my mother's curse?

 

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