Broken Glass Poem by A. P. Herbert
Broken Glass
The house still stands: but Hitler has had five shots.
The glass, the maddening glass, is everywhere.
We still are gathering glass and forget-me-nots.
We still are growing glass where the roses were.
Each little piece I pluck from a flowerbed
Is a piece of Hitler, soiling the English spring.
For each I cry a curse on a German head,
And when I remember Aachen—I laugh and sing.
April 5, 1945
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Delivering Poems Around The World
Poems are the property of their respective owners. All information has been reproduced here for educational and informational purposes to benefit site visitors, and is provided at no charge...
4/24/2024 9:51:40 AM # 1.0.0.1119
