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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Elegy On An Australian Schoolboy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I would not curse your England, wise as slow,<br>Just as unjust in deed.<br>I can believe that from her heart may flow<br>The truest human creed.<br>She sounded one high call of Liberty<br>That despots heard with dread;<br>I know not what high purpose to be free<br>Crowns yet her starry head.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Do I but raise a ghost? Is England dead?<br>Lies she in lands forlorn?<br>Shall Kentish orchards never hear the tread<br>Of eager life at morn?<br>Is she but memories of old men and sad<br>Since youth has left her side?<br>Has that vast glory that you dreamed she had<br>But perished crucified?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">England! Though all her vaunted heroes rise<br>From Nile to Flanders red<br>Calling you from the long, red sunset skies<br>You shall remain still dead.<br>You shall not touch her woods and flowers again,<br>You shall not sail her Thames,<br>You shall not see in her soft April rain<br>The fairy diadems.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She cannot honour you. You do not feel<br>Her tears and pity deep.<br>Though all her multitudes in homage kneel,<br>That cannot break your sleep,<br>That cannot give you back the dew of earth<br>The light upon the sea,<br>The soft, sweet ripple of your child’s first mirth—<br>Your immortality.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In every man there is a great, new world—<br>Perhaps a glorious race.<br>How can we tell the hero that war hurled<br>To death bore not Christ’s face?<br>How can we tell what nobler nations lie<br>Now on the fields of France,<br>What unborn masters of creation cry<br>Through murdered, white romance?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I only know you, brother of my blood,<br>Have gone; and many a friend,<br>Trampled and broken in the Flanders mud,<br>Found Youth’s most bitter end.<br>God! You are not yet one with the kind dust<br>Before new war-horns blow<br>And sleek-limbed statesmen in their halls break trust<br>To tell of other woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I speak as if you heard me, O my dear,<br>From England’s far-off shore,<br>As if that land fills me with such fear<br>Held you not evermore.<br>I live too much to feel that death must be,<br>Though men make death to-day;<br>I will not set the blame on Deity<br>Of murder tunes they play.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet you have not uttered one poor word<br>While these harsh thoughts I weave.<br>Silent as God! No murmur have I heard;<br>’Tis I, not you, who grieve.<br>How should I move that vast eternity,<br>Enough loud my cries and wild?<br>No more am I regarded than the sea<br>Regards a brawling child.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Zora+Bernice+May+Cross">Zora Bernice May Cross</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540888" data-title="Elegy On An Australian Schoolboy de Zora Bernice May Cross" data-description="I would not curse your England, wise as slow,
Just as unjust in deed.
I can believe that from her heart may flow
The truest human creed.
She sounded one high call of Liberty
That despots heard with dread;
I know not what high purpose to be free
Cr..."></div>
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