Herbert Asquith (11 March 1881 - 5 August 1947 / London, England)
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.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.