The Poets & The War XLII
Now England's moat is manned;
On every tower
The yeomen of an island country stand
And wait the hour.
Now wonder dies away and through the land
Fair mistress pleasure sleeps withing her bower.
With sword in hand, all leisure laid aside,
Heart fortified with olden memories and older pride
We wait, serene. Our is the final power.
The will to freedom still to bonds unknown
That waits the enemy with laughing eyes, alone.
All must be offered now, of toil
Or splendour, all that England's soil
Has need of, all that life endears;
The wisdom of the years
And youth's abounding still unravished dower.
Let there be neither doubting now, nor tears;
He nothing fear
Who life itself wears lightly, as a flower.