We saw them go, alert to seek the van
Where phantom Glory showered her withering leaves;
            Now they return who can.

Slowly, full-fraught with pain, the vessel heaves
From labouring seas, and creeps along the bay
            To where the city grieves.

Happy are those who limp the dusty way;
And those whose eyes can meet the loving glance,
            Happy indeed are they.

But mock them not with babble of romance:
They have glared at death across the orient rocks
            Or in the mire of France.

O welcome to your land of herds and flocks
And fields that pray toward a fairy sky
            That promises and mocks.

Welcome! our eyes are strained and sorrow-dry,
Watching for peace and you, and every heart
            Would fain, but cannot, cry.

For you who, led by love, have borne your part
Where war’s black ploughshare turns the bloody sand
            And crops of hatred start—

For you and by your help, heroic band,
We swear by love and labour to make this
            A lovelier, worthier land.

Nor shall we let the home-bred serpent hiss
Unscotched upon our hearth, if ever here
            Our hope and fortune kiss.

The workers of the battered world draw near,
Scorning a foeman’s name. The heart of Man
            In every land is dear.