 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
35
Ubi Bene
Along the English lanes a budding green,
Upon the English orchards pink and white,
And over them the rapture and delight
Of April sunshine! Fair and fresh and clean,
Washen as if in wells of hyaline
And very wondrous to the pilgrim sight;
A glad, new land of all things soft and bright—
Oh, surely, here an angel must have been
Upon the English orchards pink and white,
And over them the rapture and delight
Of April sunshine! Fair and fresh and clean,
Washen as if in wells of hyaline
And very wondrous to the pilgrim sight;
A glad, new land of all things soft and bright—
Oh, surely, here an angel must have been
And left his blessing! . . . Dead, young son of ours,
Who didst so proudly taste the loving-cup,
Whose blood but now shone like a living rose
Dropped by the Lord upon the Flanders snows,
What country shall they give you to be yours
For this, the England you have given up?
Who didst so proudly taste the loving-cup,
Whose blood but now shone like a living rose
Dropped by the Lord upon the Flanders snows,
What country shall they give you to be yours
For this, the England you have given up?
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |