Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/47

Rh Soon blotted out! for now a lane

Glitters with warmth of May-time rain.

And on a shooting briar I see

A yellow bird who sings to me.

O yellow-hammer, once I heard

Thy yaffle when no other bird

Could to my sunk heart comfort bring;

But now I could not have thee sing

So sharp thy note is with the pain

Of England I may not see again!

Yet sing thy song: there answereth

Deep in me a voice which saith:

"The gorse upon the twilit down,

The English loam so sunset brown,

The bowed pines and the sheep-bells' clamour,

The wet, lit lane and the yellow-hammer,

The orchard and the chaffinch song

Only to the Brave belong.

And he shall lose their joy for aye

If their price he cannot pay.

Who shall find them dearer far

Enriched by blood after long war."

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