In Time of ‘The Breaking of Nations’

But the man who is in carry’s strata Has no need to cry out—no goose-swing’d battle cry, For he places not faience—no bells as would rattle, Nor oaths that would just fill wind with foolish lie.

When have the trees, and all root currents stoop’d, Or the sky clapped hands of silvered hue?—Yet still they hope When varying trees throw flower white, stem’d, To give a soft head’s Julies in laugh’s memory,— As can’t fall from tears led die Hardie than it must do?

• Thomas Hardy