Tis the sound
Of violence in the springtime.
Hear the herald angels sing;
Up, onwards, and towards greater things.
In the fields
Where the flowers bend and bray –
They will not leave unspoken the words you meant to say.
There, I’ll wait,
Watching you by the Ivory Gate,
And dream I may, dream I might,
That you may join me another night.
You’ll find me, my love,
Where the violets in wartime grow gentle and green;
Whether they are a portent of things to come remains to be seen.
The angels will be singing our song.
Until then, beneath the stars I’ll lay, free as a wildflower on her dying day.