Our tears, our songs, our laurels—what are these To thee in thy Gethsemane of loss, Stretched in thine unimagined agonies On Hell's last engine of the Iron Cross.
For such a world as this that thou shouldst die Is price too vast—yet, Belgium, hadst thou sold Thyself, O then had fled from out the earth Honour for ever, and left only Gold.
Nor diest thou—for soon shalt thou awake, And, lifted high on our victorious shields, Watch the new sunrise driving for your sons The hated German shadow from your fields.
“British colonists resident in London volunteer, and not even silk hats are doffed before training begins” —New York Times