I WHATE'ER of woe the Dark may hide in womb For England, mother of kings of battle and song -- Be it rapine, racial hates, mysterious wrong, Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom -- Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom, Bind her to that great daughter sever'd long -- To near and far-off children young and strong -- With fetters woven of Avon's flower perfume. Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye Whose hands around the world are join'd by him, Who make his speech the language of the sea, Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim The breath of Avon: let this great day be A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim. II From where the steeds of Earth's twin oceaus toss Their manes along Columbia's chariotway -- From where Australia's long blue billows play -- From where the morn, quenching the Southern Cross, Startling the frigate-bird and albatross Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay -- Come hither, Pilgrims, where these rushes sway 'Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss! For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet, Sweeter is Avon's earthy, flowery smell, Distill'd from roots that feel the coming spell Of May, who bids all flowers that lov'd him meet In meadows that, remembering Shakespeare's feet, Hold still a dream of music where they fell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POOR DEVIL! by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE FIDDLING WOOD by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH MARIA CALLAS, THE WOMAN BEHIND THE LEGEND* by MADELINE DEFREES DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GAME OF CHESS by EZRA POUND |