October 1st, 1914
England! that thou wast faint of heart we said,
Or inly thought; and that the wreath of bays
Drooped on thy brow, withered with length of days,
A dust-layered trophy of the age-long Dead:
We wronged thee much! -- Myriads this month have bled
And died for thee, and though the end delays,
There's not one that a daunted spirit betrays
Nor that for thee life's last drop would not shed!
We deemed thy robes grown faded, -- but fresh-dyed
We now behold them, -- and their crimson dye
Is of thy sons' spilt blood, deep-hued and glowing:
O England! thou art comely in thy pride
And clad in glorious raiment, and thy going
Is as of one who goes to victory!
NotesOctober 1st, 1914
J. W. Cunliffe, ed. Poems of the Great War. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1916.