Rupert Brooke.

1887-1915

960   The Soldier

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 conceal’d;
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.
   Wash’d 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.

961   Clouds

DOWN the blue night the unending columns press
   In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
   Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moon’s hidden loveliness.
Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
   And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
   As who would pray good for the world, but know
Their benediction empty as they bless.

They say that the Dead die not, but remain
   Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
   I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
In wise majestic melancholy train,
     And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
   And men, coming and going on the earth.