The Great War

from The Holy War, an electronic edition

The Colonist

To men now of her blood and race

England's a little garden place,

Dear as a woman is, and she

The Queen of every loyalty.

To dwellers 'mid the ice and snows,

She is their secret garden rose

From which that bee, their heart, sucks off

For the cold Winter honey enough.

To toilers 'mid the sultry plains,

Sick for her tempered suns and rains,

She is the thought that wets their eyes

And hearts with dew of Paradise.

Most loved of those who never knew

Her green o' the silk and her soft blue,

Her mild inviolate fields that be

Hedged with the sweet-briar of the sea.

Sweet in their dreams her Summers are,

Her tranquil nights of moon and star,

The love-songs of her nightingales;

A water-spring that never fails.

Amid their unending distances

Her little crowded sweetness is

A dream of rest, a dream of prayer,

With homes and children everywhere.

Touch her -- and they are all on fire,

This little land of their desire

Seen in a mirage far away

With light upon her night and day.