For His Fiftieth Birthday
(December 30, 1915)

Lord of our noble English tongue,
     Who holdest seizin of our speech,
     Whose epic Mowgli first did reach 
The valves of all our hearts when young—

Master of every grace and ire,
     Wide as the salt-winged fulmar gulls,
     That circle England’s battle hulls,
Your songs have fanned the Imperial fire.

By Oak and Ash and Thorns, by all
     Old memories of Sussex sod,
     To you we pile the altar clod
And ask a new Recessional.