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.