Far Away and Long Ago     For old, unhappy, far off things And battles long ago —William Wordsworth, “The Solitary Reaper”   Stand upon the Saxon shore And hearken to the dogs of war, Hellish hounds that rend and slay In France not forty miles away. Stand and listen to the guns; These are Ours, those are Huns, Armies of a million men Condemned to fight and fight again, Through mud and blood they stumble on, All faith, all hope, all honour gone, Of wives and families bereft, World without end. Till what is left?   Only the sundering, soughing…