Song for the Departure of the Troops.
213
Go, go, go, we have felt for ill or good,
Sharp, sharp, sharp, the pangs of nationhood.
You, you, you, who spring so gallantly
From hut and hall
At England's call,
You shall our first fruits be.
And this day shall leave a trace, my lads,
That time shall not efface, my lads,
Bethink you then
To live like men,
Or die as fits your race, my lads.
Sharp, sharp, sharp, the pangs of nationhood.
You, you, you, who spring so gallantly
From hut and hall
At England's call,
You shall our first fruits be.
And this day shall leave a trace, my lads,
That time shall not efface, my lads,
Bethink you then
To live like men,
Or die as fits your race, my lads.
The Core of Time
My path lies through an orchard, where the sun
Filters among the heavy-laden boughs,
I pass the ruddy fruit, and pluck not one,
Dreaming, with deeply knitted brows
Of God knows what, some fairer, finer trees
Guarded, perchance, by some Hesperides,
Or winnowing from the scented breeze
Filters among the heavy-laden boughs,
I pass the ruddy fruit, and pluck not one,
Dreaming, with deeply knitted brows
Of God knows what, some fairer, finer trees
Guarded, perchance, by some Hesperides,
Or winnowing from the scented breeze
