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Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon
This is the man who, sole in Britain, sole In Europe, by profounder instinct knew The strength of Britain; and that strength he drew Slow into act, upshouldering the whole Vast weight of effort. Eyes full on the goal Saw nothing less; he held his single clue, Heedless of obstacle; intent to do His one task forthright with unshaken soul. This is the man whom, dead, the meanest match With their own stature; give tongue, and grow brave On the imperfection fools have wit to espy. His silence towers the grander for their cry, Troubling his fame no more than yelp and scratch Of jackal could disturb that ocean--grave.
Robert Laurence Binyon
Robert Laurence Binyon's other poems:
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