The White Cliffs by Alice Duer Miller

Is she worth dying for? My love, my one And only love had died, and now his son Asks me, his alien mother, to assay The worth of England to mankind today-- This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea-- Ah, no, not that--not Shakespeare--I must be A sterner critic. I must weigh the ill Against the good, must strike the balance, till I know the answer--true for me alone-- What is she worth--this country--not my own?

I thought of my father's deep traditional wrath Against England--the redcoat bully--the ancient foe-- That second reaping of hate, that aftermath Of a ruler's folly and ignorance long ago-- Long, long ago--yet who can honestly say England is utterly changed--not I--not I. Arrogance, ignorance, folly are here today. And for these my son must die? I thought of these years, these last dark terrible years When the leaders of England bade the English believe Lies as the price of peace, lies and fears, Lies that corrupt, and fears that sap and deceive. I thought of the bars dividing man from man, Invisible bars that the humble may not pass, And how no pride is uglier, crueler than The pride unchecked of class. Oh, those invisible bars of manners and speech, Ways that the proud man will not teach The humble lest they too reach Those splendid heights where a little band Have always stood and will always stand Ruling the fate of this small green land, Rulers of England--for them must I Send out my only son to die?