One hundred years have passed since parapet
and thorny wire entangled Neuve Chapelle;
Great men of bench and state confused their bet,
– their glory’s gamble – unto Europe’s hell;
We’ve come a great, long way since June’s first Shot
announced the felling of the noble oak
whose roots have passed to legend; wrought
to ruin, far-a-field, in scattered smoke.
I sit before a pixeled screen (my Book),
which – fruit of that old trench-cross’d war –
supplies me all my Lore with one vain look,
as if the Heroes were a passing bore.
How, God-less, our own age is on the wane!
Yet all’s not lost, if virtue’s sown again!

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