21.04.2012, 18:46
Exile
As on a mother's lap a boy may bow
His weary head, and kneel in ecstasy,
As the lost wretch whose hour of death is nigh
Loves the soft hand that soothes his throbbing brow,
As to the eyes that all his life endow
With all their light the lover's longings fly,
As to the dawn that kindles sea and sky
The poet kneels, with passion in his vow:
So, England, we thy sons across the seas
Turn evermore to thee, and pray, and pray
Once more to taste thy brine salt on our tongue,
And take the keen kiss of thy Western breeze
And bathe our lives in all thy golden May
-As erst, when thou wast kind, and we were young.
As on a mother's lap a boy may bow
His weary head, and kneel in ecstasy,
As the lost wretch whose hour of death is nigh
Loves the soft hand that soothes his throbbing brow,
As to the eyes that all his life endow
With all their light the lover's longings fly,
As to the dawn that kindles sea and sky
The poet kneels, with passion in his vow:
So, England, we thy sons across the seas
Turn evermore to thee, and pray, and pray
Once more to taste thy brine salt on our tongue,
And take the keen kiss of thy Western breeze
And bathe our lives in all thy golden May
-As erst, when thou wast kind, and we were young.