George Edward Woodberry Poems

Nightingales warble about it,
   All night under blossom and star;
The wild swan is dying without it,
   And the eagle crieth afar;
...

I

England, I stand on thy imperial ground,
Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow,
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Where are the friends that I knew in my Maying,
   In the days of my youth, in the first of my roaming?
We were dear; we were leal; O, far we went straying;
   Now never a heart to my heart comes homing! --
...

MOTHER of nations, of them eldest we,
Well is it found, and happy for the state,
When that which makes men proud first makest them great,
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TO tremble, when I touch her hands,
With awe that no man understands;
To feel soft reverence arise
When, lover-sweet, I meet her eyes;
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The world hath its own dead; great motions start
In human breasts, and make for them a place
In that hushed sanctuary of the race
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O DESTINED Land, unto thy citadel,
What founding fates even now doth peace compel,
That through the world thy name is sweet to tell!
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I
INTO the west of the waters on the living ocean’s foam,
Into the west of the sunset where the young adventurers roam,
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Immortal love, too high for my possessing,—
Yet, lower than thee, where shall I find repose?
Long in my youth I sang the morning rose,
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SWEET names, the rosary of my evening prayer,
Told on my lips like kisses of good-night
To friends who go a little from my sight,
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