The Invasion

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Spring, they say, with his greenery
  Northward marches at last,
  Mustering thorn and elm;
Breezes rumour him conquering,
  Tell how Victory sits
  High on his glancing helm.

Smit with sting of his archery,
  Hardest ashes and oaks
  Burn at the root below:
Primrose, violet, daffodil,
  Start like blood where the shafts
  Light from his golden bow.

Here where winter oppresses us
  Still we listen and doubt,
  Dreading a hope betrayed:
Sore we long to be greeting him,
  Still we linger and doubt
  "What if his march be stayed?"

Folk in thrall to the enemy,
  Vanquished, tilling a soil
  Hateful and hostile grown;
Always wearily, warily,
  Feeding deep in the heart
  Passion they dare not own---

So we wait the deliverer;
  Surely soon shall he come,
  Soon shall his hour be due:
Spring shall come with his greenery,
  Life be lovely again,
  Earth be the home we knew.

© Sir Henry Newbolt