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 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.

Rupert Brooke

2 thoughts on “The Soldier”

  1. The Eagle


    He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
    Close to the sun in lonely lands,
    Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.

    The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
    He watches from his mountain walls,
    And like a thunderbolt he falls.

  2. The Woodspurge


    The wind flapp’d loose, the wind was still,
    Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
    I had walk’d on at the wind’s will,—
    I sat now, for the wind was still.

    Between my knees my forehead was,—
    My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
    My hair was over in the grass,
    My naked ears heard the day pass.

    My eyes, wide open, had the run
    Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
    Among those few, out of the sun,
    The woodspurge flower’d, three cups in one.

    From perfect grief there need not be
    Wisdom or even memory:
    One thing then learnt remains to me,—
    The woodspurge has a cup of three.

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