Welcome to Domasion Ragor's Website ----- "There is a forgotten, nay almost forbidden word, which means more to me than any other. That word is England". ------ (Sir Winston Churchill (1874-1965)
  Poems That Inspire
Home Thoughts, from Abroad
by Robert Browning

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England -now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops -at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

 Today, I saw St.George’s Flag

by Charlie Chester

Today, I saw St.George’s Flag

Fluttering from the mast,

It waved in recognition to the glories of the past.

It beckoned to the future,

 and seemed to say aloud,

`If you should be an Englishman,

Look Up … my Son …be proud’

Let Hope still be your forge …

And., come what may

Let Men still say …




St. George's
by Henry Newbolt   -  YPRES, 1915.



To fill the gap, to bear the brunt,

With bayonet and with spade,

Four hundred to a four-mile front,

Unbacked and undismayed --


What men are these, or what great race,

From what old sire or town,

That run with such goodwill to face

Death on a Flanders down?

Let be ! they bind a broken line:

As men die, so die they.

Yet say whose ardour bids them stand

At bay by yonder bank,

Where a boy's voice and boy's hand

Close up the quivering rank,

Who under those all-shattering skies

Plays out his captain's part,

With the last darkness in his eyes

And Domum in his heart?


Let be, let be ! in yonder line

All names are burned away.

Land of his love ! the fame be thing,

It is St. George's Day.

William Shakespeare
(from Richard II

"This royal throne of Kings, this scepter'd isle,


This Earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,


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,


Which serves it in the office of a wall,


Or as a moat defensive to a house,


Against the envy of less happier lands,


This blessed plot, this Earth, this Realm,

this England."

'The Soldier'

By Rupert Brooke

WWI War Poet

If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
   Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
   Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
      Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
      In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

'The Few' 

by Edward Shanks






Now is this the last stronghold, defended only

By a frail handful of thistledown machines,

And now depends on these strange, unknown young men

Our inmost life.


But surely we have known them,

Our sons, our nephews, friends of our sons and daughters,

Gay and amusing, welcome in our houses

We knew them when the stronghold was their play-ground,

Young men to whom their land had given her plenty . . .

Tea on the airfield lawn, the light bird-chatter

Of young girls dressed like flowers, the casual flip,

Taking a dozen counties in its span,

The sports-car back to town, the cocktail bar,

Dinner, a show, the dancing and the laughter. . .


Till Cinderella's midnight, when the gong

Called for a change of lights, the flower-hues faded,

The bird-chatter was stilled, and they stood out,

Changed to our eyes in the livid glare of danger,

Separate in their blue, strange and unknown.




(but not aloud)


I am not gone so far away

That, even in my battle-place,

Through rifted cloud I cannot see

Spread dim below me England's face.


The woods that look like clustered weeds,

The chessboard fields, the pin-point spires,

Sun on familiar windows, even

Faint smoke of autumn garden-fires.


Since this I ride is English air,

I have not gone so far away:

From this new world I still can see

The world I knew but yesterday.


And I can see beneath my feet

The paths where not so long ago,

Before the summons came to me,

Your feet and mine were wont to go.


O new-wed wife, I am not far !

Even from the garden that we knew

You yet may see my frozen trail

Looped white across the blue.





The time will come when Ocean shall resume

His ancient sovranty upon this isle,

When all our glories shall deep-plunged be

Under a lonely sea,

And wide across this many-peopled room

The waves will roll again, mile on blue mile.


Then, not till then, the tale shall go untold

Of how the cloudy battlements were manned,

How when the gathering thunders rolled

And all the world else stood apart,

We waited, trusting in a little band,

We waited, taut and breathing close,

Till, when those vultures came to peck our heart,

Proud as a flight of swans the fighters rose.






This was their kingdom, the air, and it bore them like kings,

And they were the shield for us all who dwelt under their wings.


Brief had their lives been until then, nor much longer endured,

But just for so long as the need, till the end was assured,

This they gave up as a ransom, that we might go free,

Richness of days not yet lived, all the fullness to be,

The joy of life's long slow achievement, the race and the prize,

The peace of the ultimate evening, before the light dies.


All this they burnt up in a moment, the young men, the kings,

Who guarded this land in that hour by the might of their wings.


No gift have we now we may give them that weighs what they gave,

But the clouds of our skies shall entwine them the wreath for their grave.


Edward Shanks (1892 – 1953)


(*Threnody: genre of poetry and song, mourning the death of a person or people, similar to a lament.)






For England and St.George!
Thought for the Day
Tomorrow is the day you were hoping for yesterday.
England's Claim of Right

I've signed The English Claim of Right

Remember to Fly the English Flag and Wear a Rose on St.George's Day April 23rd
A little bit about myself.
First and foremost I am English.
I am proud to be a member of the
Royal Society of St. George.

I am also a member of the
Royal British Legion and the
United Kingdom National Defence Association (UKNDA).

I was an officer in the Army Cadet Force
for over 25years.

I am a member of the English Democrats Party.

Links to all these organizations can be found in the
web-links section.

I also enjoy writing short stories (nothing published as yet!)
and samples of these are included on this site.
I also have another site devoted to my writings at: http://domasionragor.webs.com/

If I had a motto, it would be:
Honesty, Loyalty, Integrity.
Remember Your Towel!
Don’t Panic!
International Towel Day is
25th May

It can be said that anyone who can hitch the length and breadth of the [world], rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through,
and still knows where his towel is,
is clearly a man to be reckoned with.'
(Copyright: Douglas Adams)
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The Answer is 42 .... and Remember Where Your Towel is! Important Notice: Unless otherwise stated all stories, poems, observations or comments on this website are the sole property of Allan James Lammiman and should not be downloaded, scanned or otherwise copied without the owners permission. This website was created for free with Own-Free-Website.com. Would you also like to have your own website?
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