It struck me as such so strongly in 1963 when I commuted it to memory and can still pronounce it smoothly.
Later, while on one of 3 combat tours in Viet Nam, I composed several poems of my own to get my mind away, describing once the horror of incoming artillery rounds and the death that followed, once the feelings for one young Co (the delicate Viet young ladies in their waist tight white ao dai dresses), and the final one admonishing my Country to never fight a war with one hand behind our back again.
It struck me as such so strongly in 1963 when I commuted it to memory and can still pronounce it smoothly.
Later, while on one of 3 combat tours in Viet Nam, I composed several poems of my own to get my mind away, describing once the horror of incoming artillery rounds and the death that followed, once the feelings for one young Co (the delicate Viet young ladies in their waist tight white ao dai dresses), and the final one admonishing my Country to never fight a war with one hand behind our back again.
There, John, you've described the sustaining worth of genuine poetry.
Glorious poem. Thank you for posting it.