The Subject
You say you have no subject
And your brushes all have dried;
but come to Marazion
at the ebbing of the tide,

And look you out to seaward,
Where My Lady battle-scarred
Hugs the rock that is more welcome
Than the shameful breaker’s yard.

Paint her there upon the sunset
In her glory and despair
With the diadem of victory
Still in the flower upon her hair.

Let her whisper as she settles
Of her blooding long ago
In the mist that mingles Jutland
With the might of Scapa Flow.

Let her tell you, too, of Narvik
With it snowy hills, and then
Of Matapan, Salerno
And the shoals of Walcheren;

And finally of Malta,
when along the purple street
Came in trail the Roman Fleet
To surrender at her feet.

Of all the honours conscious
how could she bear to be
Delivered to the spoiler
Or severed from the sea?

So hasten then and paint her
In the last flash of her pride.
on the rocks of Marazion
At the ebbing of the tide.