SONNET

Christ God, Who died for us, now turn Thy face!

Behold not what men do, lest once again

Thou should’st be crucified, and die of pain.

Look not, O Lord, but only of Thy grace

Do Thou let fall on this accursed place,

Where the poor starve and labour in disdain

Of blinded Greed and all its vulgar train,

A single thread of heaven that we may trace

Some way to Right! And since “great men” stand by,

Heedless of women and men that hunger, Lord,

Give Thou to common men the vision splendid.

Take (and if need be break) them, like a sword;

Take them, and break them till their lives be ended;

Here are a thousand christs ready to die!

Sweet Motherland, what have I done for thee,

What suffered, what of lasting beauty made?

I who ungratefully and undismayed

Drank from thy breast the milk which nourished me

In childhood, which until my death must be

The life within my veins. Lo, from that shade

Wherein they rest, thy dead and mine, arrayed

In honour’s robes, come clear and plaintively

Voices for ever to my listening ear

Which cry, “Not yet is finished England’s fight!

Still, still must poets strive and martyrs bleed

To overthrow the enemies of Light,

Armies of Dullness, Cruelty, Lust, and Greed!”

Yet what have I done for thee, England dear?