COME with rain, O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
Make the settled snow-bank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate’er you do to-night,
Bathe my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ices go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit’s crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o’er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
Bury her deeper than any sleeper
Sweet dreams will keep her all day all night
Though sleep benumb her and time o’ercome her,
She dreams of summer and takes delight,
Dreaming and sleeping in love’s good keeping,
While rain is weeping and leaves no cling;
Winds will come bringing her comfort, and singing her
Stories and songs and good news of spring.
Come as you love her, come close and cover
Her white face over, and forth again
Ere sunset glances on foam that dances,
Through lowering lances of bright, white rain;
And make your play time of winter’s daytime
As if the maytime were here to sing;
As if the snowballs were soft as blow balls,
Blown in a mist from the stalk in the spring.
In fierce march weather white waves break tether,
And whirl together at each hand,
Like weeds uplifted, the tree trunks rifted
In spars drifted, like foam or sand,
Past swamp and sallow and reed-beds callow,
Through pool and shallow, to wind and lee,
Till, no more tongue-tied full flood and young tide
Roar down the rapids and storm the sea.
Roll the strong stream of it up, to the scream of it
Wake from a dream of it children that sleep,
Seamen that fare from them forth, with a prayer for them;
Shall not God care for them, angels not keep?
Spare not the surges thy stormy scourges;
Spare us the dirges of wives that weep
Turn back the waves for us, dig no fresh graves for us,
Wind in the manifold gulfs of the deep.
O stout north-easter, sea-king land waster,
For all thine haste, or thy stormy skill,
Yet hadst thou never, or all endeavour,
Strength to dissever or strength to spill,
Save of his giving who gave our living,
Whose hands are weaving what ours fulfil;
Whose feet tread under the storms and thunder;
Who made our wonder to work his will.
His years and hours, his world’s blind powers,
His stars and flowers, his nights and days,
Sea-tide and river, and waves that shiver,
Praise God, the giver of tongues to praise.
Wind in their blowing, and fruits in their growing;
Time in it’s going, while time shall be;
In death and living, with one thanksgiving,
Praise him whose hand is the strength of the sea.
Writer unknown recieved in an email:
Goodbye to England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say your English, that's way out of line
The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may the Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say your Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say your English ever again.
At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliment too
Even schools are affected. Staff do as they are told
They must not teach of the England of old.
Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings, Arnhem or Mons?
When England Lost hosts of her very brave sons.
We are not Europeans, how can we be
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted-shout it out loud!
Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage, the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK!