I am an unexploded shell, Buried deep in a farmer's field, Part of the harvesting of hell That war's unholy furrows yield. I am placid and peaceful now, Harmless now as a baby's breath; Struck some day by the farmer's plough, I shall thunder an awful death. Thousands of other shells like me, Sure to burst into woe some day, Lie in the fields of futurity, Lie in wait in the people's way. Shells of poverty, shells of hate, And shells of misery murdering, Struck by the ploughshare soon or late -- Ah, but war is a cursed thing! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COUNSEIL TO A BACHELER by MARIANNE MOORE TUNICA PALLIO PROPRIOR by MARIANNE MOORE THE CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN by KAREN SWENSON VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 2. OFF ALGIERS by SARA TEASDALE FETES GALANTES: ROMANCES SANS PAROLE, SELECTION by PAUL VERLAINE |