Here Is a Marvel, and No God May Ban It.

An Olive Branch, Grown in New England Granite.

I love every stock and stone
Of this land, no more my own;
Which we lost, that it might be
Wider by half a world of sea;
We cleft the rock with bitter toil
Having left our roots in sweeter soil,
Or torn them up and bid them thrive
Like mandrakes, bloody but alive:
Dust and sweat were wholesome salves
Until our hearts were cut in halves.
Ah, that was a prodigious wound;
A severing of sacred ground;
That was bad; but this is best;
Let the uprooted mandrake rest.
Love the good and leave the fault;
Sow not his several graves with salt;
Sow not these graves with dragon's teeth;
Part of England lies beneath
Both the granite and the loam:
Let the divided heart come home
To half-content, and understand
His passion for a wilder land
Still untamed and still unfed
By flesh and bone that England bred.
If we desert the deed undone
Alas, what daughter and what son!
Break the sword: the iron strike
To plough-shares, share and share alike!