The Ebb Of War Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEFGHFIJFKLMFFNOP FFQFLRSFFTFFKFFFFFF| In the seven times taken and re taken town | A |
| Peace The mind stops sense argues against sense | B |
| The August sun is ghostly in the street | C |
| As if the Silence of a thousand years | D |
| Were its familiar All is as it was | E |
| At the instant of the shattering flat thrown walls | F |
| Dislocated rafters lintels blown awry | G |
| And toppling over what were windows mere | H |
| Gapings on mounds of dust and shapelessness | F |
| Charred posts caught in a bramble of twisted iron | I |
| Wires sagging tangled across the street the black | J |
| Skeleton of a vine wrenched from the old house | F |
| It clung to a limp bell pull here and there | K |
| Little printed papers pasted on the wall | L |
| It is like a madness crumpled up in stone | M |
| Laughterless tearless meaningless a frenzy | F |
| Stilled like at ebb the shingle in sea caves | F |
| Where the imagined weight of water swung | N |
| Its senseless crash with pebbles in myriads churned | O |
| By the random seethe But here was flesh and blood | P |
| Seeing eyes feeling nerves memoried minds | F |
| With the habit of the picture of these fields | F |
| And the white roads crossing the wide green plain | Q |
| All vanished One could fancy the very fields | F |
| Were memory's projection phantoms All | L |
| Silent The stone is hot to the touching hand | R |
| Footsteps come strange to the sense In the sloped churchyard | S |
| Where the tower shows the blue through its great rents | F |
| Shadow falls over pitiful wrecked graves | F |
| And on the gravel a bare headed boy | T |
| Hands in his pockets with large absent eyes | F |
| Whistles the Marseillaise To Arms To Arms | F |
| There is no other sound in the bright air | K |
| It is as if they heard under the grass | F |
| The dead men of the Marne and their thin voice | F |
| Used those young lips to sing it from their graves | F |
| The song that sang a nation into arms | F |
| And far away to the listening ear in the silence | F |
| Like remote thunder throb the guns of France | F |
Robert Laurence Binyon
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