The Soldier
Rupert Brooke
1887 to 1915
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If I should die, think only this of me:
there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts of given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts peace, under an English heaven.