O ENGLAND, thou hast many a precious dower; Each nation master at its own fireside But of all treasures it is thine to claim , The claim is just, and so one day ' twill be; Prize most the memory of each sainted name, But a wise race the time of fruit will bide, That in thy realm, in field or hall or bower Nor pluck th' unripen'd apple from the tree. Hath wrought high deeds or utter'd words of power Unselfish warrior, without fear or blame Statesman, with sleepless watch and steadfast aim Holding his country's helm in perilous hour Poet, whose heart is with us to this day Embalm'd in song-or Priest, who by the ark Of faith stood firm in troublous times and dark. Call them not dead, my England! such as they Not were but are; within us each survives, And lives an endless life in others' lives. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FORGIVENESS by WILLIAM HENRY DAVIES THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING TAMERLANE (4) by EDGAR ALLAN POE TRAVEL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON |