| They came just after dark
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| Shortly after the sirens wailed I
|
| could hear the planes grinding overhead
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| In my room, with its black curtains drawn across the windows
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| You could feel the shake from the guns
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| The motors seemed to grind rather than roar
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| And to have an angry pulsation
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| Like a bee buzzing in blind fury
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| As we stepped out onto the balcony a
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| vast inner excitement came over all of us
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| An excitement that had neither fear nor
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| horror in it, because it was too full of awe
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| The whole horizon of a city lined with great fires — scores of them
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| Perhaps hundreds
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| There was something inspiring just in the awful savagery of it
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| Into the dark shadowed spaces below us while we watched
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| Whole batches of incendiary bombs fell
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| Then quickly simmered down to pinpoints
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| of dazzling white, burning ferociously.
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| All around below were the shadows
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| The dark shadows of buildings and bridges
|
| that formed the base of this dreadful masterpiece.
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| These things all went together to make the most hateful
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| Most beautiful single scene I have ever known
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| (correspondence of the London blitz by Ernie Pyle) |