The unrelated paragraphs of morning br Are forgotten now; the severed heads of kings br Rot by the misty Thames; the roses of York br And Lancaster are pressed between the leaves br Of history; Negroes sleep in Africa. br The complexities of simple interest lurk br In inkwells and the brittle sticks of chalk: br Afternoon is come and English Grammar. br br Rain falls as though the sky has been bereaved, br Stutters its inarticulate grief on glass br Of every lachrymose pane. The children read br Their books or make pretence of concentration, br Each bowed head seems bent in supplication br Or resignation to the fate that waits br In the unmapped forests of the future. br Is it their doomed innocence noon weeps for? br br In each diminutive breast a human heart br Pumps out the necessary blood: desires, br Pains and ecstasies surf-ride each singing wave br Which breaks in darkness on the mental shores. br Each child is disciplined; absorbed and still br At his small desk. Yet lift the lid and see, br Amidst frayed books and pencils, other shapes: br Vicious rope, glaring blade, the gun cocked to kill.