Along the English lanes a budding green, Upon the English orchards pink and white, And over them the rapture and delight Of April sunshine! Fair and fresh and clean, Washen as if in wells of hyaline And very wondrous to the pilgrim sight; A glad, new land of all things soft and bright-- Oh, surely here an angel must have been And left his blessing! . . . Dead, young son of ours, Who didst so proudly taste the loving-cup, Whose blood but now shone like a living rose Dropped by the Lord upon the Flanders snows, What country shall they give you to be yours For this, the England you have given up?