Song of Thanksgiving.

The rains that nourished England fell once upon
our sires, Whose hearts, in exile, must have dreamed of
spring in English shires; And they bequeathed to us the blood which at
that mother's name Moves in our breast till all our pride of race
leaps into flame.
'Tis then we think of England—her woods and
trees and skies, Of all the ancient loveliness that in her cool
heart lies; Of every spring that films her lanes and
burgeons her slim trees, And stirs her slow historic earth to birth's new
mysteries.
The very name of England is home to those
who've heard Sleepily stirring through their dreams songs of
an English bird, And there has chimed within our minds many a
time the notes Of larks that herald golden day with dew across
their throats.
And yet our hearts own fiercer love to this
young eager land, Where damp and sweet with smells of earth the
virgin forests stand, And, tumbling through the lace of rimus, snowy
cascades pour A flash of waterfall on ferns that bend to their
soft roar.
The gentle fields of England are drowsy with
old dreams. And bright with waves of buttercups that glow
beside her streams.
But English skies have never seen the rata
droop to lean Her scarlet mouth against a lake's smooth breast
of placid green.
Her winds lift shining apple-blossom from
flushed orchards where The droning bees make sleepy thunder through
the flowered air;
But ours know snow-fed rivers leaping from a
mountain head To score out gorges for a wall and beaten rock
for bed
Yet not in simple things like these the subtle difference lies
For all our springs may be as sweet, and just as soft our skies.
But through the veins of England's earth the storied centuries beat,
And he who treads on English dust treads history’ neath his feet.
Here where the years are hardly touched, the
story scarce begun, The imprint of the pioneers lies warm on all
that's won; We thank each tool that, wielded well within
their patient hands, Beat us slim spires from stubborn rock: from
barren hills, fair lands…
For they have given us the task—the graver task—to make
Out of the untried Now a future great for England's sake.
We may not tread an ancient soil stamped with old songs and tears,
But we must build and hew our tale out of the rock of years.
We must take up the dreams, the tools, and,
pioneering still,
Carve the swift-changing years in noble purpose to our will,
Giving our deep, exultant thanks for this exacting trust,
Since our hands’ work may serve our race when we are mute in dust.

—Una Currie.

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