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Poem by Henry Newbolt
Dear Earth, near Earth, the clay that made us men, The land we sowed, The hearth that glowed—- O Mother, must we bid farewell to thee? Fast dawns the last dawn, and what shall comfort then The lonely hearts that roam the outer sea? Gray wakes the daybreak, the shivering sails are set, To misty deeps The channel sweeps—- O Mother, think on us who think on thee! Earth-home, birth-home, with love remember yet The sons in exile on the eternal sea.
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