The French guns roll continuously And our guns, heavy, slow; Along the Ancre, sinuously, The transport wagons go, And the dust is on the thistles And the larks sing up on high… But I see the Golden Valley Down by Tintern on the Wye For it's just nine weeks last Sunday Since we took the Chepstow train, And I'm wondering if one day We shall do the like again; for the four-point-two's come screaming Thro' the sausages on high; So there's little use in dreaming How we walked above the Wye. Dust and corpses in the thistles Where the pas-shells burst like snow, And the shrapnel screams and whistles On the Bécourt road below, And the High Wood bursts and bristles Where the mine-clouds foul the sky… But I'm with you up at Wyndcroft, Over Tintern on the Wye. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KISS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR THE RETORT by GEORGE POPE MORRIS ON A PIECE OF TAPESTRY by GEORGE SANTAYANA MISUNDERSTANDINGS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 26 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT AMBITION by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |