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Sir Henry Newbolt - The InvasionSir Henry Newbolt - The Invasion
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Spring, they say, with his greenery   Northward marches at last,     Mustering thorn and elm; Breezes rumour him conquering,   Tell how Victory sits     High on his glancing helm. Smit with sting of his archery,   Hardest ashes and oaks     Burn at the root below: Primrose, violet, daffodil,   Start like blood where the shafts     Light from his golden bow. Here where winter oppresses us   Still we listen and doubt,     Dreading a hope betrayed: Sore we long to be greeting him,   Still we linger and doubt     "What if his march be stayed?" Folk in thrall to the enemy,   Vanquished, tilling a soil     Hateful and hostile grown; Always wearily, warily,   Feeding deep in the heart     Passion they dare not own--- So we wait the deliverer;   Surely soon shall he come,     Soon shall his hour be due: Spring shall come with his greenery,   Life be lovely again,     Earth be the home we knew.
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