Rupert Brooke. The Soilder.

If I should die, think only this of me:      That there’s some corner of a foreign fieldThat 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.