NOT the remembered scent of English air
In thawing fields, nor English melodies,
Nor song of English birds in English skies
Can make this England. All our house is bare;
Our lives are stopped; our hearts are other-where,
As homesick travellers whose impatient eyes
See only aliens: for all England lies
Where you have set your honour and her care.
The earshot of your bugle-calls at morn
Tells England's measure now; her history
Is in your undistinguished graves compressed
Your deeds are all her life, your sleep her rest
You are her only citizens, and we
Are exiles in the place where we were born.
A Crown of Amaranth. London: Erskine Macdonald., 1915.