Three Thousand Miles
Now he can hardly press
The heavy petals of thought,
Tired of what he wants
And sick of what he ought,
He is content to watch
The window fill with snow
Making even the Future
Seem long ago.
Knowing that in Europe
All the streets are black
And that stars of blood
Star the almanac,
One half-hour's reprieve
Drowns him in the white
Physical or spiritual
Inhuman night.
~~
Louis MacNeice (1907-1963)
from Poetry, May 1940
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]
Louis MacNeice biography
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