THE SOLDIER

by: Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

      F 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.

"The Soldier" is reprinted from "1914" Five Sonnets. Rupert Brooke. London: Sidgwick & Jackson, 1915.

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