The Invasion

Spring, they say, with his greenery Northward marches at last, Mustering thorn and elm; Breezes rumour him conquering, Tell how Victory sits High on his glancing helm. Smit with sting of his archery, Hardest ashes and oaks Burn at the root below: Primrose, violet, daffodil, Start like blood where the shafts Light from his golden bow. Here where winter oppresses us Still we listen and doubt, Dreading a hope betrayed: Sore we long to be greeting him, Still we linger and doubt "What if his march be stayed?" Folk in thrall to the enemy, Vanquished, tilling a soil Hateful and hostile grown; Always wearily, warily, Feeding deep in the heart Passion they dare not own— So we wait the deliverer; Surely soon shall he come, Soon shall his hour be due: Spring shall come with his greenery, Life be lovely again, Earth be the home we knew.