Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! <br />There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, <br />But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. <br />These laid the world away; poured out the red <br />Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be <br />Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, <br />That men call age; and those who would have been, <br />Their sons, they gave, their immortality. <br /> <br />Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, <br />Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. <br />Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, <br />And paid his subjects with a royal wage; <br />And Nobleness walks in our ways again; <br />And we have come into our heritage.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/1914-iii-the-dead/
