On A Troopship - 1915

FAREWELL, the village leaning to the hill, And all the cawing rooks that homeward fly ; The bees; the drowsy anthem of the mill The willows winding under April sky ! We watch the breakers crashing on the bow, And those far flashes in the Eastern haze : The fields and friends, that were, are fainter now Than whispering of ancient waterways. Now England stirs, as stirs a dreamer wound In immemorial slumber ; lids apart, Soon will she rouse her giant limbs, attuned To that old music hidden at her heart. The small occasions and the menial cries Fade fast away : the little men beware : She rises in her circuit of the skies, An eagle drinking of the mountain air. We come to harbour in the breath of wars; Welcome again, the land of our farewells In this strange ruin, open to the stars, We find the haven, where her spirit dwells.