On the night of the Belgian surrender the moon rose Late, a delayed moon, and a violent moon For the English or the American beholder; The French beholder. It was a cold night, People put on their wraps, the troops were cold No doubt, despite the calendar, no doubt Numbers of refugees coughed, and the sight Or sound of some killed others. A cold night. On Outer Drive there was an accident: A stupid well-intentioned man turned sharp Right and abruptly he became an angel Fingering an unfamiliar harp, Or screamed in hell, or was nothing at all. Do not imagine this is unimportant. He was a part of the night, part of the land, Part of the bitter and exhausted ground Out of which memory grows.                                    Michael and I Stared at each other over chess, and spoke As little as possible, and drank and played. The chessmen caught in the European eye, Nither of us I think had a free look Although the game was fair. The move one made It was difficult at last to keep one's mind on. 'Hurt and unhappy' said the man in London. We said to each other, The time is coming near When none shall have books or music, none his dear, And only a fool will speak aloud his mind. History is approaching a speechless end, As Henry Adams said. Adams was right. All this occurred on the night when Leopold Fulfilled the treachery four years before Begun – or was he well-intentioned, more Roadmaker to hell than king? At any rate, The moon came up late and the night was cold, Many men died – although we know the fate Of none, nor of anyone, and the war Goes on, and the moon in the breast of man is cold.