To A Horse Poem by A. P. Herbert

The curtain rises on the crowded stage—
The grimmest play produced by any age.
We have invaded France-and captured Rome;
Winged, wicked weapons race towards our home.
We move on tiptoe up the final slope,
Intense with toil, anxiety and hope,
Our cause humanity, our foe brute force—
And yet to-day we idolize a horse.
To-day, wherever Englishmen are found,
One Suffolk mile or so is sacred ground;
To-day the Holy City knows your name,
And I dare say that Bayeux does the same.
To-day all Britons are a band of brothers,
Knowing that you run faster than the others.
This is a mystery, as all agree;
Yet, noble horse, it does not worry me.
Here is the secret weapon of the land;
Here is a thing no Hun can understand.
June 18,1944