WED
I KNOW the winds are rhythmical
In unison with your footfall.
I know that in your heart you keep
The secret of the woodland’s sleep.
You met the blossom-bearing May—
Sweet sister!—on the road half way,
And she has laid upon your hair
The coloured coronal you wear.
But ah! the white wings of the Dove
Flutter about the head I love,
And on your bosom doth repose
The beauty of the Mystic Rose,
That I must add to poetry
A dark and fearful ecstasy;
For in the house of joy you bless
Unworthiness with holiness.
ENGLAND
I
LIKE some good ship that founders in the sea,
Like granite towers that crumble into dust,
So pass the emblems of thine empery.
But O immortal Mother and august,
Ardours of English saint and bard and king
Blend simply with thy soul, even as their bones
Mingle with English soil. Their spirits sing
A great song lordly as is a loud wind’s tones.
Decayed by gold and ease and loathly pride,
We had forgot our greatness and become
Huckstering empire-builders, and denied
The excellent name of freedom ... till the drum
Woke glory such as met the eyes of Drake,
Or Alfred when he saw the heathen break!