<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">Sonnet</h1><p class="inline-note" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"><em>October 1st, 1914</em></p><div class="stanza"><p class="line"><span class="smallcaps">England</span>! that thou wast faint of heart we said,</p><p class="line">Or inly thought; and that the wreath of bays</p><p class="line">Drooped on thy brow, withered with length of days,</p><p class="line">A dust-layered trophy of the age-long Dead:</p><p class="line">We wronged thee much! -- Myriads this month have bled</p><p class="line">And died for thee, and though the end delays,</p><p class="line">There's not one that a daunted spirit betrays</p><p class="line">Nor that for thee life's last drop would not shed!</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">We deemed thy robes grown faded, -- but fresh-dyed</p><p class="line">We now behold them, -- and their crimson dye</p><p class="line">Is of thy sons' spilt blood, deep-hued and glowing:</p><p class="line">O England! thou art comely in thy pride</p><p class="line">And clad in glorious raiment, and thy going</p><p class="line">Is as of one who goes to victory!</p></div><p class="byline">-- Grace E. Tollemache.</p></body></html> · Great War