I Am Never Going To Write For

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.

Let Our First Care Today Be The Re-establishment Of Our Physical Strength, The Reconstruction Of Our National Organism, So That In Future, Where The Respect Due To Us Cannot Be Won By Entreaty, It May Be Commanded, And Where It Cannot Be Commanded, It May Be Enforced.

The Soul, At Peace, Reflects The Peace Without, Forgetting Grief As Sunset Skies Forget The Morning's Transient Shower.

Naught Is Too Small And Soft To Turn And Sting.

Not Like The Brazen Giant Of Greek Fame, With Conquering Limbs Astride From Land To Land; Here At Our Sea-washed, Sunset Gates Shall Stand A Mighty Woman With A Torch, Whose Flame Is The Imprisoned Lightning, And Her Name Mother Of Exiles.