The Worn Doorstep
By Margaret Pollock Sherwood
29 Jan, 2019
The grey war-cloud drifts closer and grows darker. Namur has fallen into German hands; there are rumours—God grant that they are not true!—that the French and the English troops are retreating. In spite of the entire confidence of the people here
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The grey war-cloud drifts closer and grows darker. Namur has fallen into German hands; there are rumours—God grant that they are not true!—that the French and the English troops are retreating. In spite of the entire confidence of the people here in their island security, there is fear in my heart for England, this England which seems so remote from cruel struggle, as if created in some moment of Nature's relenting, when she was almost ready to take back her fell purpose,—it is so full of fragrances, of soft colours of flowers, of softer green of hedgerows and meadows. There is something in you, you Englishmen of finer type, shaped by this beauty, quiet and self-contained, of hill and dale and meadow. Surely in you too I know this quietness, this coolness, the still ways of the streams. Less