from Ave Imperatrix
by Oscar Wilde

For not in quiet English fields
Are these, our brothers, laid to rest,
Where we might deck their broken shields
With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls,
And many in the Afghan land,
And many where the Ganges falls
Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie,
And others in the seas which are
The portals to the East, or by
The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

And thou whose wounds are never healed,
Whose weary race is never won,
0 Cromwelrs England! must thou yield
For every inch of ground a son?