by Robert Laurence Binyon
IT was the very heart of Peace that thrilled
In the deep minster-bell's wide-throbbing sound
When over old roofs evening seemed to build
Security this world has never found.
Your cloister looked from Caesar's rampart, high
O'er the fair city : clustered orchard-trees
Married their murmur with the dreaming sky.
It was the house of love and living peace.
And there we talked of youth's delightful years
In Italy, in England. Now, O Friend,
I know not if I speak to living ears
Or if upon you too is come the end.
Peace is on Louvain ; dead peace of spilt blood
Upon the mounded ashes where she stood.
Last updated January 14, 2019