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This poem is often wrongly thought to be by Robert W Service. It is published here to the memory of Hugh Antoine D'Arcy, its rightful father.
An Evening with the Bard of the Yukon, July 18 th 2003 at 20.30pm in the Town-Hall of Lancieux, Brittany.
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The Lark

Published by Susan on 07/23/2003 (3676 reads)
From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn...

From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn,
   The guns have brayed without abate;
And now the sick sun looks upon
   The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate
As if it loathed to rise again.
   How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark!
From yon down-trodden gold of grain,
   The leaping rapture of a lark.

A fusillade of melody,
   That sprays us from yon trench of sky;
A new amazing enemy
   We cannot silence though we try;
A battery on radiant wings,
   That from yon gap of golden fleece
Hurls at us hopes of such strange things
   As joy and home and love and peace.

Pure heart of song! do you not know
   That we are making earth a hell?
Or is it that you try to show
   Life still is joy and all is well?
Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain
   You beat into that bit of blue:
Lo! we who pant in war's red rain
   Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too.

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