Up and be doing, all who have a hand

To lift, a back to bend.  It must not be

In times like these that vaguely linger we

To air our vaunts and hopes; and leave our land

Untended as a wild of weeds and sand.

—Say, then, “I come!” and go, O women and men

Of palace, ploughshare, easel, counter, pen;

That scareless, scathless, England still may stand.

Would years but let me stir as once I stirred

At many a dawn to take the forward track,

And with a stride plunged on to enterprize,

I now would speed like yester wind that whirred

Through yielding pines; and serve with never a slack,

So loud for promptness all around outcries!

March 1917.