Once I made for you songs, Rondels, triolets, sonnets; Verse that my love deemed due, Verse that your love found fair. Now the wide wings of war Hang, like a hawk’s, over England, Shadowing meadows and groves; And the birds and the lovers are mute. Yet there’s a thing to say Before I go into battle, Not now a poet’s word But a man’s word to his mate: Dear, if I come back never, Be it your pride that we gave The hope of our hearts, each other, For the sake of the Hope of the World. 1915.
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