Classic Poem

Our eager vessel flings a foam
That dazzles with the setting sun.
A thousand voices talk of home;
Our voyage is almost done.
Not for the gracious green of English meadows,
Not for the fragrances of hawthorn lanes,
Not for the fall of soft, remembering shadows
On desolated fanes,
O our own land,
Freedom's throneland,
Line of lilac on the sea,
Would we give our hearts from thee.
The west is gold as daffodils,
With sudden rifts that seem to ope
On emerald forests, opal hills
And lawns of heliotrope.
Not for a Riviera full of roses,
Not for an Andalusia full of sun,
Not for a dreaming Orient that reposes
Where hushed waters run,
O our own land,
Freedom's throneland,
Line of lilac on the sea,
Would we give our hearts from thee.