In Memory of Rupert Brooke
In alien earth, across a troubled sea, His body lies that was so fair and young. His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; His arm is still, that struck to make men free. But let no cloud of lamentation1 be Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, We keep the vision of his chivalry2.
So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, Smote3 now his harp4, and now the hostile horde5. To-day the starry6 roof of Heaven rings With psalms7 a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.