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Now if you saw my village

You'd not think it beautiful,

But flat and commonplace—

As I'd have called it half a year ago …

But when you've pondered

Hour upon chilly hour in those damned trenches

You get at the significance of things,

Get to know, clearer than before,

What a tree means, what a pool,

Or a black, wet field in sunlight.

One gets to know,

In that shell-pierced silence

Under the unmoved, ironic stars,

How good love of the earth is.

So I go strolling,

Hands deep in pockets, head aslant,

And eyes screwed up against the light,

Just loving things

Like any other lunatic or lover.

For there's so much to love,

So much to see and understand,

So much naïveté, whimsicality,

Even in a dull village like this.