THE SOLDIER SPEAKS
Within my heart I safely keep,
England, what things are yours:
Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep
That drift o’er windy moors.
Possessing naught, I proudly hold
Great hills and little gay
Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold
At breaking of the day.
Though unto me you be austere
And loveless, darling land;
Though you be cold and hard, my dear,
And will not understand.
Yet have I fought and bled for you,
And, by that self-same sign,
Still must I love you, yearn to you,
England—how truly mine!