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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=511119" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Song OF The Sons</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=511119" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">One from the ends of the earth -- gifts at an open door --<br>Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!<br>From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,<br>Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed!<br>Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude?<br>Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood?<br> <br>Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in --<br>We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.<br>Not in the dark do we fight -- haggle and flout and gibe;<br>Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.<br>Gifts have we only to-day -- Love without promise or fee --<br>Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Rudyard+Kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a></strong></div>

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