Cicely Fox Smith

(1 February 1882 – 8 April 1954 / Lymm, Cheshire)

Sons Of The English - Poem by Cicely Fox Smith

Why do you smile so glad, sons of the English?
Why do your eyes gaze forward, happy and glowing?
'Only we know that the battle cometh upon us, -
Joy in the knowing.'

Whitherward trend your ways, sons of the English?
Where go ye forth to-day, stalwart and cheery?
'Outward thro' alien lands take we our journey,
Lands that are dreary.'

Where have ye won your bays, sons of the English,
Bays that ye clasp in your fingers dripping and gory?
'Swift from the hands of Death, bleeding and breathless,
Grasped we our glory.'

When will you cease to roam, sons of the English,
Out over perilous seas no longer forth faring?
'Never while earth has foes for our hands to conquer,
Deeds for daring.'

Were it not happy to rest, sons of the English,
Travail and wounds and pain no longer pursuing?
'Rest - when the very blood that throbs in our pulses
Drives us to doing?'

What will the end of it be, sons of the English,
You who go forth to war, fearing no omen?
'Death if need be: red death in the flush of the foray,
Face the foeman!'

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Poem Submitted: Monday, August 30, 2010

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