Leaves Of England
In the swan white haze,
by Gerry Legister
Old trees bend and hung,
And shelter in the shadow,
From the burning sun.
In London York and Birmingham,
Sublime on the rainy crest,
Beneath the leaves of England,
Lays the spirits in arbours of quiet rest.
A hundred years will go in praise,
Two hundred more will come,
When we fall down upon our knees,
To struggle with a heavier burden.
Bourne from greed brandishing pride,
A people oppress by the passing game,
This new generation will not chide,
Nor caress the unpleasant storm.
They too are proud of the lilies that grow,
In English towns and cloudy forest,
They grieve in widow’s grief and still sow,
In abundance the seeds of riches.
Like the apocalypse to brighter bliss,
With glorious triumph in blood and pain,
England will rise from the abyss,
And joy resonate from every town.
A people, a religion, a pageant entrench,
In the mockery of what it once possess,
When it drew its breath to quench,
The memories scattered like fallen leaves.