If ever I had 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 /> <br />Or if I onetime hoped to hide its shame, <br />- Shame of success, and sorrow of defeats, - <br />Under those holy cypresses, the same <br />That shade always the quiet place of Keats, <br /> <br /> <br />Now rather thank I God there is no risk <br />Of gravers scoring it with florid screed. <br />Let my inscription be this soldier's 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 blurred and fade away.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-to-my-friend-with-an-identity-disc/
