--by Rupert Brooke

　　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 concealed¹;

　　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, blessed by the 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 a peace, under an English heaven.