The Soldier
by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

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.

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