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
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