Another guest post from The Hilltop Watchman, contrasting our great literary history with todays world
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a
foreign field; That is forever England. There shall be in that rich earth a
richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave,
once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing
English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no
less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and
sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and
gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke (1887 – 1915)
The EU lie, is not hard to see: That there’s some corner of a foreign field;
That’s all that’s left of England. There was inside those turgid screeds, a
nasty truth concealed. A truth that Europe’s laws, shaped, from over there,
ruled from Brussels above, surrendered at home, abolishing England’s hard
won English air, Sold down the river, stitched up by the treaty of Rome.
Don’t think! Our English heart, all trace cut away, Erased from the central
mind, a ringing death of England’s knell; Her sights and sounds; dreams
dashed by the day; Ironic laughter, no real friends, no gentleness, little
peace, Absorbed in the EU collective hell
With apologies to Rupert Brooke (1887 – 1915)
Jeremy Zeid (1954 – )