A. P. Herbert
Broken Glass - Poem by A. P. Herbert
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
Comments about Broken Glass by A. P. Herbert
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You