The Soldier
Rupert Brooke, John Ireland
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 somеwhere back the thoughts by England givеn;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven
