IF I should die, think only this of me:
That theres some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.
There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust conceald;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
once her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of Englands, breathing English air.
Washd by the
rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
DOWN the blue night the unending columns press
In noiseless tumult, break and wave and
Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
Up to the white moons hidden loveliness.
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.
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.
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