The Invasion

By Sir Henry Newbolt

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.