O wonderful!  How liquid clear
  O youngest of the giant brood
  Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue,
  Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
  Oh, the angler’s path is a very merry way,
  Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late,
  Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear,
  Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
  Once, only once, I saw it clear,—­
  One sail in sight upon the lonely sea,
  Only a little shrivelled seed,

  Peace without Justice is a low estate,—­

  Read here, O friend unknown,
  Remember, when the timid light

  Saints are God’s flowers, fragrant souls
  Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul: 
  Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name,
  Sign of the Love Divine
  Some three-score years and ten ago
  Soul of a soldier in a poet’s frame,
  Stand back, ye messengers of mercy!  Stand
  Stand fast, Great Britain!

  The British bard who looked on Eton’s walls,
  The clam that once, on Jersey’s banks,
  The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
  The cradle I have made for thee
  The day returns by which we date our years: 
  The fire of love was burning, yet so low
  The gabled roofs of old Malines
  The glory of ships is an old, old song,
  The grief that is but feigning,
  The heavenly hills of Holland,—­
  The laggard winter ebbed so slow
  The land was broken in despair,
  The melancholy gift Aurora gained
  The moonbeams over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring,
  The mountains that inclose the vale
  The nymphs a shepherd took
  The other night I had a dream, most clear
  The record of a faith sublime,
  The river of dreams runs quietly down
  The roar of the city is low,
  The rough expanse of democratic sea
  The shadow by my finger cast
  The tide, flows in to the harbour,—­
  The time will come when I no more can play
  The winds of war-news change and veer: 
  The worlds in which we live at heart are one,
  There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire: 
  There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light,
  There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
  There is a bird I know so well,
  They tell me thou art rich, my country:  gold
  This is the soldier brave enough to tell
  This is the window’s message,
  Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay,
  Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
  “Through many a land your journey ran,
  ’Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
  To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
  Two dwellings, Peace, are thine
  Two hundred years of blessing I record
  “Two things,” the wise man said, “fill me with awe: 
  ’Twas far away and long ago,

  Under the cloud of world-wide war,