THE night-birds cry in the bush outside, <br />And I write here, though the hour be late; <br />And what shall I write of the man who died? <br />'He gave his gold to the poor at his gate!' <br />The line is written. Was that his all, <br />And did that all exhaust his love? <br />'Nay, nay, write on, while the night-birds call: <br />‘He gave his soul to his God above’!' <br />Say on; for in so rich a vein <br />More gold lay waiting to be proved. <br />' 'T was so! Write this, and write it plain: <br />‘He gave his heart to the wife he loved’!' <br />What more? 'What more dost thou require? <br />What more was left to give or take? <br />Yet more there was. Write this in fire: <br />‘He gave his life for his country's sake’!' <br />'Last gift of all, with courage fine, <br />Though far from stars that watched his birth. <br />He fell. Write then this final line: <br />‘He gave his clay to the aliens' earth’!'<br /><br />Roderic Quinn<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/bequeathal/
