The Sibilant Soldier

If I should snuff it, sensitively say:
That there's some silent top-soil overseas
Shall still be solely Saxon. There shall stay
In that sweet sod, a sweeter sod at ease;
A sod some Saxons spawned, schooled, sought to sow,
Sent out, snowdrops to smell, and streets to stride,
A Saxon stiff, sniffed Saxon breezes blow,
By streams sluiced, in its houses safe inside.

Sense this, this soul, its sins to simply cast
Aside, a sliver of the cosmic scheme,
Sends back the Saxon sentiments that blessed it:
Their shapes and sighs; their snooze that's seldom past;
And spoofs that schoolboys share; a soothing dream
For souls 'neath Saxon starscapes, surely rested.

From Send-Up