while as varied as a field — full of poppies, had an，
He thought only of roses, And silk. When he could get no more silk He stopped painting And only thought Of roses.
The day the conquerors Entered the city, The old man Lay dying. He heard the bugles and drums, And wished he could paint the roses Bursting into sound.
Now what in the name of the sun and the stars Is the meaning of this most unholy of wars?
Do men find life so full of humour and joy That for want of excitement they smash up the toy?
Fifteen millions of soldiers with popguns and horses All bent upon killing, because their "of courses"
Are not quite the same. All these men by the ears, And nine nations of women choking with tears.
It is folly to think that the will of a king Can force men to make ducks and drakes of a thing
They value, and life is, at least one supposes, Of some little interest, even if roses
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