The road that leads to Braemar winds ever in and out. It wanders here and dawdles there, and trips and turns about Like a child upon an errand that play has put to rout. By the road that leads to Braemar, the greybeard poplars stand, And on the sky's pale tapestry are broidered in a band With the flashing frosty needle that gleams in winter's hand. There are haggard apple-orchards on either side the way, That once flung scented largesse to every summer's day To mingle with the incense where hot pine-needles lay. And down the road's long vista the shadows spread like wings As lightly spun and purple as the shade the evening brings For circling children's eyelids round with mystic drowsy rings. The rutty road to Braemar all weather-worn and brown, Goes tumbling on its journey until it nears the town. Then with glory of the wattle-bloom its arms are weighted down! Oh, the long, long road to anywhere seems haply without end, But who shall call it weary with the love of some good friend To greet him like the wattle as he turns the final bend!
- by Nina Murdoch17
There has been wrong done since the world began. That young men should go out and die in war, And lie face down in the dust for a brief span, And be not good to look at anymore.
It is the old men with their crafty eyes And greedy fingers and their feeble lungs, Make mischief in the world and are called wise, And bring war on us with their garrulous tongues.
It is the old men hid in secret rooms, Feign wisdom while they sign our peace away, And turn fair meadows into reeking tombs, And passionate bridegrooms into bloodied clay.
It is the old men should be sent to fight! The old men grown so wise they have forgot The touch of mouth on mouth in the still of night, The tenderness that wedded lovers wot;
The dreams that dwell in the eyes of a young bridge; The secret beauty of things said and done; The hope of children coming, and the pride Of little homes and gardens in the sun.
It is the old men who have nought to lose, And nought to pray for but their gasping breath, Should bear this ill of the world, and so choose Out of their beds to meet their master, Death.
This is the bitterest wrong the world wide, That young men on the battlefield should rot, And I be widowed who was scare a bride, While prattling old men sit at ease and plot.
Poems by Nina Murdoch, Nina Murdoch's poems collection. Nina Murdoch is a classical and famous poet (1890 - 1976 / Australia). Share all poems of Nina Murdoch.