In foremost battle, quite aside.
O perfect Eden of the earth,
In poppies sown, in harvest set!
O sires, mothers of my West!
How shall we count your proud bequest?
But yesterday ye gave us birth;
We eat your hard-earn'd bread to-day,
Not toil nor spin nor make regret,
But praise our petty selves and say
How great we are, and all forget