From which no time shall darken out their sun;
And quicken, with the blood of those who died,
These living hands for battles yet unwon.
Here speaks, at last, Jarama of their knowing
All freedoms ebbed where Ebro held its line;
Till ‘Hold Madrid’ rang out upon their going,
‘No Spanish orphan dies, who is not mine!’
These do not die, who were in love with living,
Enough to lose it for some others’ gain;
Who gave the world, but did not count the giving,
Its unforgotten images of Spain.