NO grave more nobly graced, No whiter pall than that which wraps the heads Of those who sleep where the lone land outspreads Its ice-bound waste. These, Mother, were thy sons, Brood of thy brood, whose seed by sea and land Still man to-day, and in days gone have manned Our English guns. No mortal foe defied. What Nature in her silent holds of snow Hides from all outer ken, they strove to know, And striving -- died. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 17. A LOVER'S PLEA by THOMAS CAMPION ANECDOTE OF THE JAR by WALLACE STEVENS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 15. AL-GHAFFAR by EDWIN ARNOLD CALIFORNIA RAIN by MARGERY AILYN BISHOP STREAMLINERA: OCEAN-LINER by PAULINE JONES BURNS ON THE PATRON OF ENGLAND by JOHN BYROM |