John Bohun Martin
Keeping his word, the promised Roman kept
Enough of worded breath to live till now.
Our Regulus was free of plighted vow
Or tacit debt: skies fell, seas leapt, storms swept;
Death yawned: with a mere step he might have stept
To life. But the House-master would know how
To do the master's honours; and did know,
And did them to the hour of rest, and slept
The last of all his house. Oh, thou heart's-core
Of Truth, how will the nations sentence thee?
Hark! as loud Europe cries 'Could man do more?'
Great England lifts her head from her distress,
And answers 'But could Englishman do less?'
Ah England! goddess of the years to be!
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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Related quotes
Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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England! The Time Is Come When Thou Should’st Wean
ENGLAND! the time is come when thou should'st wean
Thy heart from its emasculating food;
The truth should now be better understood;
Old things have been unsettled; we have seen
Fair seed-time, better harvest might have been
But for thy trespasses; and, at this day,
If for Greece, Egypt, India, Africa,
Aught good were destined, thou would'st step between.
England! all nations in this charge agree:
But worse, more ignorant in love and hate,
Far--far more abject, is thine Enemy:
Therefore the wise pray for thee, though the freight
Of thy offences be a heavy weight:
Oh grief that Earth's best hopes rest all with Thee!
poem by William Wordsworth
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England, My England
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:--
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mail'd hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There 's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England--
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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When We Get To England
When we get to england
Will we know when weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will we know if she has died?
Does the girl with the dogs
Still live in the big house
On the corner?
Are the boys collecting frogs
Still marching away
To die in war?
Like its all from a dream
Like its all from some history book
Didnt look too hard
Did I miss something that I should have seen?
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
Will we know where weve arrived?
When we get to england
Will a kiss bring her alive?
Once a farmer in the field
Had to grow enough
To feed his family
Now they pay him for his yield
Just to burn it down
And throw away
Like its all from a dream
Like its all in a crystal ball
Did it fall so hard?
Rest in pieces on a village green
When we get to england
Will it still be there?
When we get to england
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sir Richard's Song
(A. D. 1066)
I followed my Duke ere I was a lover,
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over--
But now England hath taken me!
I had my horse, my shield and banner,
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner--
But now England hath taken me!
As for my Father in his tower,
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my Mother in her bower,
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my Brother in Rouen City,
A nimble and naughty' page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity--
Tell him England hath taken me!
As for my little Sister waiting
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating--
Tell her England hath taken me!
As for my comrades in camp and highway
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way--
Tell them England hath taken me!
Kings and Princes and Barons famed,
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamed--
Seeing England hath taken me!
Howso great man's strength be reckoned,
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second-
And Love in England hath taken me!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Tennyson
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,—
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh,
At rest in all the best that love could give!
How excellent to bear into old age
The poet's ardor and the heart of youth,
To keep to the last sleep the vow of truth,
And leave to lands that grieve a glowing page!
How glorious to feel the spirit's power
Unbroken by the near approach of death,
To breathe blest prophecies with failing breath,
Soul-bound to beauty in that latest hour!
How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned,
The master-spirit to thy dreams so dear,
At last from his immortal lips to hear
The dirge for Imogen, and thee, intoned!
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,—
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh,
At rest in all the best that love could give!
poem by Florence Earle Coates from Poems (1898)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ripoff
I don't wanna be no traitor to the cause
But England is a luxury - not many can afford
There's people going under - it's getting out of hand
Whatever happened to our - our green and pleasant land?
It turned into a wilderness; it turned into a third world country
Most people ain't getting what they pay for
Some people gettin' more than they should be
I know, I know - I'm an alien - but what are you gonna do
I wanna live in England - but it gets to you
It gets to you, it gets to you, it gets to you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
What do you do when you find out?
Where do you go if you leave?
There's no place like home - that's what they say
And that's what you always believed
Someday you might win the Lottery
Someday you might win the Pools
But that's all you've got - that's all you've got
- to live for, to live for
That's all you've got - that's all you've got -
to live for, to live for (yeah)
To be or not to be - that's the question
Oh what's it gonna be?
I'd love to live in England - but it gets to me
it gets to me, it gets to me, yeah it gets to me
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
I really don't know why - England wants to rip off you
England wants to rip off you, England wants to rip off you
I really don't know why - England's such a ripoff
It's crazy, but it's true
Oh I really don't know why - England wants to rip off
England wants to rip off , England wants to rip o
song performed by by Ian Hunter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Said the Kaiser to the Spy
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can do nought, your Majesty—
You rule the sea and sky.
Her day of destiny is done;
Her path of peace is plain;
For she dare never throw a troop
Across the Strait again.”
The Kaiser sent his mighty host,
With Bombast in advance,
To set his seal on Paris first,
And make an end of France.
Their guns were heard in Paris streets,
And trembling Europe heard;
(They’re staggering back in Belgium now)
And England said no word.
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can do nought in Southern seas
Where her possessions lie!
Her colonies are arming now—
They only wait your aid!”
“I’ll send my ships,” the Kaiser said,
“And I will kill her trade!”
The Kaiser sent his cruisers forth
To do their worst or best;
And one made trouble in the North—
The Cocos tell the rest.
He sent a squadron to a coast
Where treachery prevailed—
Gra’mercy! They were stricken hard
On seas that Raleigh sailed!
“Now tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“Her ports are all unfortified
And there your chances lie!”
He sent his ships to Scarborough,
And called them back again.
The Blucher lies in Channel ooze
With seven hundred men.
“Oh, tell me what can England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
“She can’t hold Egypt for a day—
(I have it from On High.”)
And so the Kaiser paid the Turk
To put the matter through—
And England’s Queen of Egypt now,
And boss of Turkey too.
“Now tell me what shall England do?”
Said the Kaiser to the Spy.
You see that neither of them knew
Much more than you or I.
But the blooming thing that’s troubling me
As the pregnant weeks go by,
Is wotinell shall England do
When the Kaiser hangs that Spy!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Commemoration
I sat by the granite pillar, and sunlight fell
Where the sunlight fell of old,
And the hour was the hour my heart remembered well,
And the sermon rolled and rolled
As it used to roll when the place was still unhaunted,
And the strangest tale in the world was still untold.
And I knew that of all this rushing of urgent sound
That I so clearly heard,
The green young forest of saplings clustered round
Was heeding not one word:
Their heads were bowed in a still serried patience
Such as an angel's breath could never have stirred.
For some were already away to the hazardous pitch,
Or lining the parapet wall,
And some were in glorious battle, or great and rich,
Or throned in a college hall:
And among the rest was one like my own young phantom,
Dreaming for ever beyond my utmost call.
'O Youth,' the preacher was crying, 'deem not thou
Thy life is thine alone;
Thou bearest the will of the ages, seeing how
They built thee bone by bone,
And within thy blood the Great Age sleeps sepulchred
Till thou and thine shall roll away the stone.
'Therefore the days are coming when thou shalt burn
With passion whitely hot;
Rest shall be rest no more; thy feet shall spurn
All that thy hand hath got;
And One that is stronger shall gird thee, and lead thee swiftly
Whither, O heart of Youth, thou wouldest not.'
And the School passed; and I saw the living and dead
Set in their seats again,
And I longed to hear them speak of the word that was said,
But I knew that I longed in vain.
And they stretched forth their hands, and the wind of the spirit took them
Lightly as drifted leaves on an endless plain.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Cromwell
They took dead Cromwell from his grave,
And stuck his head on high;
The Merry Monarch and his men,
They laughed as they passed by
The common people cheered and jeered,
To England’s deep disgrace—
The crowds who’d ne’er have dared to look
Live Cromwell in the face.
He came in England’s direst need
With law and fire and sword,
He thrashed her enemies at home
And crushed her foes abroad;
He kept his word by sea and land,
His parliament he schooled,
He made the nations understand
A Man in England ruled!
Van Tromp, with twice the English ships,
And flushed by victory—
A great broom to his masthead bound—
Set sail to sweep the sea.
But England’s ruler was a man
Who needed lots of room—
So Blake soon lowered the Dutchman’s tone,
And smashed the Dutchman’s broom.
He sent a bill to Tuscany
For sixty thousand pounds,
For wrong done to his subjects there,
And merchants in her bounds.
He sent by Debt Collector Blake,
And—you need but be told
That, by the Duke of Tuscany
That bill was paid in gold.
To pirate ports in Africa
He sent a message grim
To have each captured Englishman
Delivered up to him;
And every ship and cargo’s worth,
And every boat and gun—
And this—all this, as Dickens says—
“Was gloriously done.”
They’d tortured English prisoners
Who’d sailed the Spanish Main;
So Cromwell sent a little bill
By Admiral Blake to Spain.
To keep his hand in, by the way.
He whipped the Portuguese;
And he made it safe for English ships
To sail the Spanish seas.
The Protestants in Southern lands
Had long been sore oppressed;
They sent their earnest prayers to Noll
To have their wrongs redressed.
He sent a message to the Powers,
In which he told them flat,
All men must praise God as they chose,
Or he would see to that.
And, when he’d hanged the fools at home
And settled foreign rows,
He found the time to potter round
Amongst his pigs and cows.
Of private rows he never spoke,
That grand old Ironsides.
They said a father’s strong heart broke
When Cromwell’s daughter died.
(They dragged his body from its grave,
His head stuck on a pole,
They threw his wife’s and daughter’s bones
Into a rubbish hole
To rot with those of two who’d lived
And fought for England’s sake,
And each one in his own brave way—
Great Pym, and Admiral Blake.)
From Charles to Charles, throughout the world
Old England’s name was high,
And that’s a thing no Royalist
Could ever yet deny.
Long shameful years have passed since then,
In spite of England’s boast—
But Englishmen were Englishmen,
While Cromwell carved the roast.
And, in my country’s hour of need—
For it shall surely come,
While run by fools who’ll never heed
The beating of the drum.
While baffled by the fools at home,
And threatened from the sea—
Lord! send a man like Oliver—
And let me live to see.
poem by Henry Lawson
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My Heart
List I to the hurried beatings
Of my heart;
How its quickened, loud repeatings
Make me start!
Often do I hear it throbbing
Fast and wild;
As I've heard it, after sobbing,
When a child.
Why so wild, so swift and heated,
Little heart?
Is there something in thee seated,
Baffling art?
Pain with all thy throbs is blended--
Pain so dread!
Oftentimes life seems suspended
By a thread!
Then thou'lt grow so still--like ocean
In its rest;--
Till I scarce can feel a motion
In my breast.
Think'st thy house is dark and dreary,
Veiled in night?
Art thou pining, sad and weary,
For the light?
Wouldst be free from the dominions
That control;
Spreading all thy golden pinions
Toward the goal?
Gladly, gladly, would I free thee
From Earth's thrall!
With what bliss and joy to see thee
Rise o'er all!
But 'tis not for me to aid thee
In thy flight;
For the Holy One who made thee,
Doeth right.
When his own good time arriveth,
Then will He,
From the load with which thou strivest,
Set thee free.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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A House of Memories
Four generations of my family have lived in that house,
everytime I pass it fresh memories are aroused.
It was once filled with laughter, music and conversation,
now there’s only creaking floors and insect habitation.
My younger sister and brother were born in the master bedroom
and their cries are in my memories as they left mum’s womb.
With the midwife shouting for more hot water and towels,
and dad pacing the floor listening for the new baby’s howl.
The happy times ended when sis fell from her bedroom window,
we all blamed ourselves and for years we suffered in sorrow.
Mum and dad spoke as if she was still about the house each day;
to them reality had died and their sadness was hidden away.
Soon after my older brother went to war at the age of eighteen,
he was captured by the enemy and never again seen.
My granddad was killed whilst working underneath his car,
the jack gave way and he wasn’t missed for over an hour.
My young brother was an adventurer and explored the garden well,
the rope snapped and he drowned, it must’ve been hell.
Mum and dad had so much pain and distress locked inside,
they said nothing could stop their misery except suicide.
A week or so later, the morning began unlike any other day,
the master bedroom was quiet in an odd sort of way.
My twin sister and I had this feeling of gloom and despair
we broke down and cried before we got upstairs.
We entered the master bedroom and saw mum and dad,
in each others arms, no longer looking sad.
And now there’s just my darling sister and me,
who daily live with our childhood memories.
poem by Orlando Belo
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The Fourth of August
NOW in they splendour go before us,
Spirit of England, ardent-eyed!
Enkindle this dear earth that bore us,
In the hour of peril purified.
The cares we hugged drop out of vision,
Our hearts with deeper thoughts dilate.
We step from days of sour division
Into the grandeur of our fate.
For us the glorious dead have striven;
They battled that we might be free.
We to that living cause are given,
We arm for men that are to be.
Among the nations nobliest chartered,
England recalls her heritage.
With her is that which is not bartered,
Which force can neither quell nor cage.
For her immortal stars are burning,
With her, the hope that's never done,
The seed that's in the Spring's returning,
The very flower that seeks the sun.
We fight the fraud that feeds desire on
Lies, in a lust to enslave or kill,
The barren creed of blood and iron,
Vampire of Europe's wasted will.
Endure, O Earth! and thou, awaken,
Purged by this dreadful winnowing-fan,
O wronged, untameable, unshaken
Soul of divinely suffering man!
poem by Laurence Binyon from Poems of the Great War
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Dies Irae
On that great, that awful day,
This vain world shall pass away.
Thus the sibyl sang of old,
Thus hath holy David told.
There shall be a deadly fear
When the Avenger shall appear,
And unveiled before his eye
All the works of man shall lie.
Hark! to the great trumpet's tones
Pealing o'er the place of bones:
Hark! it waketh from their bed
All the nations of the dead,--
In a countless throng to meet,
At the eternal judgment seat.
Nature sickens with dismay,
Death may not retain its prey;
And before the Maker stand
All the creatures of his hand.
The great book shall be unfurled,
Whereby God shall judge the world;
What was distant shall be near,
What was hidden shall be clear.
To what shelter shall I fly?
To what guardian shall I cry?
Oh, in that destroying hour,
Source of goodness, Source of power,
Show thou, of thine own free grace,
Help unto a helpless race.
Though I plead not at thy throne
Aught that I for thee have done,
Do not thou unmindful be,
Of what thou hast borne for me:
Of the wandering, of the scorn,
Of the scourge, and of the thorn.
Jesus, hast thou borne the pain,
And hath all been borne in vain?
Shall thy vengeance smite the head
For whose ransom thou hast bled?
Thou, whose dying blessing gave
Glory to a guilty slave:
Thou, who from the crew unclean
Didst release the Magdalene:
Shall not mercy vast and free,
Evermore be found in thee?
Father, turn on me thine eyes,
See my blushes, hear my cries;
Faint though be the cries I make,
Save me for thy mercy's sake,
From the worm, and from the fire,
From the torments of thine ire.
Fold me with the sheep that stand
Pure and safe at thy right hand.
Hear thy guilty child implore thee,
Rolling in the dust before thee.
Oh the horrors of that day!
When this frame of sinful clay,
Starting from its burial place,
Must behold thee face to face.
Hear and pity, hear and aid,
Spare the creatures thou hast made.
Mercy, mercy, save, forgive,
Oh, who shall look on thee and live?
poem by Thomas Babbington Macaulay
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Sonnet. On Peace
O PEACE! and dost thou with thy presence bless
The dwellings of this war-surrounded Isle;
Soothing with placid brow our late distress,
Making the triple kingdom brightly smile?
Joyful I hail thy presence; and I hail
The sweet companions that await on thee;
Complete my joy let not my first wish fail,
Let the sweet mountain nymph thy favourite be,
With England's happiness proclaim Europa's Liberty.
O Europe! let not sceptred tyrants see
That thou must shelter in thy former state;
Keep thy chains burst, and boldly say thou art free;
Give thy kings law leave not uncurbed the great ;
So with the horrors past thou'lt win thy happier fate!
poem by John Keats
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The Vigil
England! where the sacred flame
Burns before the inmost shrine,
Where the lips that love thy name
Consecrate their hopes and thine,
Where the banners of thy dead
Weave their shadows overhead,
Watch beside thine arms to-night,
Pray that God defend the Right.
Think that when to-morrow comes
War shall claim command of all,
Thou must hear the roll of drums,
Thou must hear the trumpet's call.
Now, before thy silence ruth,
Commune with the voice of truth;
England! on thy knees to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.
Single-hearted, unafraid,
Hither all thy heroes came,
On this altar's steps were laid
Gordon's life and Outram's fame.
England! if thy will be yet
By their great example set,
Here beside thine arms to-night
Pray that God defend the Right.
So shalt thou when morning comes
Rise to conquer or to fall,
Joyful hear the rolling drums,
Joyful tear the trumpets call,
Then let Memory tell thy heart:
'England! what thou wert, thou art!'
Gird thee with thine ancient might,
Forth! and God defend the Right!
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Composed By The Sea-Side, Near Calais, August 1802
FAIR Star of evening, Splendour of the west,
Star of my Country!--on the horizon's brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should'st be my Country's emblem; and should'st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there she lies.
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory!--I, with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Elegy On An Australian Schoolboy
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
Crowns yet her starry head.
Do I but raise a ghost? Is England dead?
Lies she in lands forlorn?
Shall Kentish orchards never hear the tread
Of eager life at morn?
Is she but memories of old men and sad
Since youth has left her side?
Has that vast glory that you dreamed she had
But perished crucified?
England! Though all her vaunted heroes rise
From Nile to Flanders red
Calling you from the long, red sunset skies
You shall remain still dead.
You shall not touch her woods and flowers again,
You shall not sail her Thames,
You shall not see in her soft April rain
The fairy diadems.
She cannot honour you. You do not feel
Her tears and pity deep.
Though all her multitudes in homage kneel,
That cannot break your sleep,
That cannot give you back the dew of earth
The light upon the sea,
The soft, sweet ripple of your child’s first mirth—
Your immortality.
In every man there is a great, new world—
Perhaps a glorious race.
How can we tell the hero that war hurled
To death bore not Christ’s face?
How can we tell what nobler nations lie
Now on the fields of France,
What unborn masters of creation cry
Through murdered, white romance?
I only know you, brother of my blood,
Have gone; and many a friend,
Trampled and broken in the Flanders mud,
Found Youth’s most bitter end.
God! You are not yet one with the kind dust
Before new war-horns blow
And sleek-limbed statesmen in their halls break trust
To tell of other woe.
I speak as if you heard me, O my dear,
From England’s far-off shore,
As if that land fills me with such fear
Held you not evermore.
I live too much to feel that death must be,
Though men make death to-day;
I will not set the blame on Deity
Of murder tunes they play.
And yet you have not uttered one poor word
While these harsh thoughts I weave.
Silent as God! No murmur have I heard;
’Tis I, not you, who grieve.
How should I move that vast eternity,
Enough loud my cries and wild?
No more am I regarded than the sea
Regards a brawling child.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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