If ever I dreamed of my dead name <br />High in the heart of London, unsurpassed <br />By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame, <br />There seeking a long sanctuary at last, <br /> <br />I better that; and recollect with shame <br />How once I longed to hide it from life's heats <br />Under those holy cypresses, the same <br />That shade always the quiet place of Keats, <br /> <br />Now rather thank I God there is no risk <br />Of gravers scoring it with florid screed, <br />But let my death be memoried on this disc. <br />Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed. <br />But may thy heart-beat kiss it night and day, <br />Until the name grow vague and wear away.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/with-an-identity-disc/
