Arthur Christopher Benson

I have been brave in my way,
Though men did not call me brave;
They deem that I creep away,
If ever a pennon wave
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Land of hope and glory, Mother of the free,
How may we extol thee, who are born of thee?
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MY sorrow had pierced me through; it throbbed in my heart like a thorn;
This way and that I stared, as a bird with a broken limb
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This is my chiefest torment, that behind
The brave and subtle spirit, the swift brain,
There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
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O pertest, most self-satisfied
Of aught that breathes or moves,
See where you sit, with head aside,
To chirp your vulgar loves:
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BY feathers green, across Casbeen
   The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown,
By gems he strew'd in waste and wood,
   And jewell'd plumes at random thrown.
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How small a thing am I, of no repute,
Whirled in the rush of these eternal tides;
Spun daily round upon this orb that rides
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Clasp hands across the world,
Across the dim sea-line,
Where with bright flags unfurled
Our navies breast the brine;
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February, bitter February,
Month of hope withheld and promise vain,
Drenching, under fickle smiles, the unwary
Earth with devastating rain.
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By copse and hedgerow, waste and wall,
He thrusts his cushions red;
O'er burdock rank, o'er thistles tall,
He rears his hardy head:
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