Poem of the Day
I had a little trouble getting back in the swing of things after I got home. This is me trying to get back on the wagon. My book club just met to discuss The Crimson Rooms by Katharine McMahon, which is set between WWI and WWII, and which all of us quite liked. This poem is included before the first chapter, aptly as Wilfred Owen wrote it during WWI before he was killed. I also found this critique when I was searching for the text to cut & paste.
The Kind Ghosts
By Wilfred Owen
She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost looms
Out of the stillness of her palace wall,
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms.
She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,
Not marvelling why her roses never fall
Nor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms.
The shades keep down which well might roam her hall.
Quiet their blood lies in her crimson rooms
And she is not afraid of their footfall.
They move not from her tapestries, their pall,
Nor pace her terraces, their hecatombs,
Lest aught she be disturbed or grieved at all.