And then with one's memory tired out by the war one might never
remember the long story they told, when the belfry and the
brown-roofed houses all murmured at evening, might never remember even
that they had spoken all through that warm spring and evening. We may
have heard them speak and forgotten that they have spoken. Who knows?
We are at war, and see so many strange things: some we must forget,
some we must remember; and we cannot choose which.
To turn from Kent to Flanders is to turn to a time of mourning through
all seasons alike. Spring there brings out no leaf on myriad oaks, nor
the haze of green that floats like a halo above the heads of the birch
trees, that stand with their fairylike trunks haunting the deeps of
the woods. For miles and miles and miles summer ripens no crops, leads
out no maidens laughing in the moonlight, and brings no harvest home.
When Autumn looks on orchards in all that region of mourning he looks
upon barren trees that will never blossom again. Winter drives in no
sturdy farmers at evening to sit before cheery fires, families meet
not at Christmas, and the bells are dumb in belfries; for all by which
a man might remember his home has been utterly swept away: has been
swept away to make a maniacal dancing ground on which a murderous
people dance to their death led by a shallow, clever, callous,
imperial clown.
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