XI
Can it be thought, or can the thought be borne,
That for a single hour beneath the sun
Earth shall endure, when England’s day is done?
A world without an England! Yea, but shorn
Of the divinest gem her breast hath worn,
What most she makes for—doomed thenceforth to run
Blind, lost, and calling for that treasured One,
Through star-sown space, unfathomably mourne!
Never again the liquid air to breathe
On a May morn among the Mendip Hills;
Never to watch the green Atlantic seethe
Around the Lizard, while the Severn fills;
Never to hear the quivering strings that hung
The speech of Chatham on the English tongue!
Hesepe, 10th July