<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">The English Graves.</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">THE rains of yesterday are flown,</p><p class="line">And light is on the farthest hills.</p><p class="line">The homeliest rough grass by the stone</p><p class="line">With radiance thrills;</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">And the wet bank above the ditch,</p><p class="line">Trailing its thorny bramble, shows</p><p class="line">Soft apparitions, clustered rich,</p><p class="line">Of the pale primrose.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">The shining stillness breathes, vibrates</p><p class="line">From simple earth to lonely sky,</p><p class="line">A hinted wonder that awaits</p><p class="line">The heart's reply.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">O lovely life! the chaffinch sings</p><p class="line">High on the hazel, near and clear.</p><p class="line">Sharp to the heart's blood sweetness springs</p><p class="line">In the morning here.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">But my heart goes with the young cloud</p><p class="line">Which voyages the April light</p><p class="line">Southward, across the beaches loud</p><p class="line">And cliffs of white</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">To fields of France, far fields that spread</p><p class="line">Beyond the tumbling of the waves,</p><p class="line">And touches, as with shadowy tread,</p><p class="line">The English graves.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">There, too, is Earth that never weeps,</p><p class="line">The unrepining Earth, that holds</p><p class="line">The secret of a thousand sleeps,</p><p class="line">And there unfolds</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Flowers of sweet ignorance on the slope</p><p class="line">Where strong arms dropped and blood choked </p><p class="line">breath;</p><p class="line">Earth, that forgets all things but hope</p><p class="line">And smiles on death. .</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">They poured their spirits out in pride;</p><p class="line">They throbbed away the price of years;</p><p class="line">Now that dear ground is glorified</p><p class="line">With dreams, with tears.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">A flower there is sown, to bud</p><p class="line">And bloom beyond our loss and smart.</p><p class="line">Noble France, at its root is blood</p><p class="line">From Our England's heart.</p></div><p class="byline">Laurence Binyon.</p>(The <em>Spectator>, June 26th, 1915</em></body></html> · Great War