WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night-

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplish'd and the long day done,

My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gather'd to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

844. England, My England

What have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own ?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

England-

Round the world on your bugles blown!