There is no escape by the river, There is no flight left by the fen; We are compassed about by the shiver Of the night of their marching men. Give a cheer! For our hearts shall not give way....
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our heart free. ...
When the bugler morn shall wind his horn, And we wake to the wild to be, Shall we open our eyes on the selfsame skies And stare at the selfsame sea? O new, new day! though you bring no stay...
They that eat the uncrushed grape Walk with steady heels: Lo, now, how they stare and gape Where the poet reels! He has drunk the sheer divine Concentration of the vine.
Floating! Floating--and all the stillness waits And listens at the ivory gates, Full of a dim uncertain presage Of some strange, undelivered message. There is no sound save from the bush...
Weary, oh, so weary With it all! Sunny days or dreary-- How they pall! Why should we be heroes, Launa Dee, Striving to no winning? Let the world be Zero's! As in the beginning...