AN Edward's England spat us out—a band Foredoomed to redden Vistula or Rhine, And leaf-like toss with every wind malign, All mocked the faith they could not understand. Six centuries have passed. The yellow brand On shoulder nor on soul has left a sign And on our brows must Edward's England twine Her civic laurels with an equal hand. Thick-clustered stars of fierce supremacy Upon the martial breast of England glance! She seems of War the very Deity. Could aught remain her glory to enhance? Yea, for I count her noblest victory Her triumph o'er her own intolerance. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON TALK OF PEACE AT THIS TIME by ROBERT FROST GETHSEMANE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WHERE? by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON A MID-DAY DREAMER by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: MRS. PURKAPILE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |