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XCVII
The Soldier Speaks
WITHIN my heart I safely keep,
England, what things are yours:
Your clouds, and cloud-like flocks of sheep
That drift o'er windy moors.
Possessing naught, I proudly hold
Great hills and little, gay
Hill-towns set black on sunrise-gold
At breaking of the day.
Though unto me you be austere
And loveless, darling land;
Though you be cold and hard, my dear,
And will not understand,
Yet have I fought and bled for you,
And, by that self-same sign,
Still must I love you, yearn to you,
England—how truly mine!
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