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.
Last updated January 14, 2019