The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me, that there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever 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. 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.

                            Rupert Brooke 1882 - 1915