在这里你会发现thePoemMarching Feetof poet Katharine Lee Bates
THESE August nights, hushed but for drowsy peep Of fledglings, tremble with a strange vibration, A sound too far for hearing, sullen, dire, Shaking the earth. Even within the swaying veils of sleep We are haunted by a horror, a mistrust, A muffled perturbation, Vaguely aware Of prodigies in birth, Of brooding thunders unbelievable, Fierce forces that conspire Against mankind. We start awake; The purple glooms, all sweet With dewy fragrance, bear Our eyelids down, but still we feel the beat, Dull, doomful, irretrievable, Of Europe's marching feet, Enchanted, blind, By wizard music led Over crushed blossoms, through the mocking dust, To baths of blood and fire. Beyond the seas, in these hushed hills we dread That hollow, rhythmic tread Of nation against nation, That ancient, bitter thrust Of war against a world that might be fair As any golden star that rides the air. We cannot rest for marching feet that must Harvest and home forsake, Inexorably called to take The road of desolation, Trampling on hearts that break.
