1914 Iii: The Dead
Rupert Brooke
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth, And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again; And we have come into our heritage.
Next 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : 1914 Iv: The Dead
- Rupert Brooke : 1914 V: The Soldier
- Rupert Brooke : A Channel Passage
- Rupert Brooke : A Letter To A Live Poet
- Rupert Brooke : A Memory
- Rupert Brooke : A Memory ( From A Sonnet- Sequence )
- Rupert Brooke : And Love Has Changed To Kindliness
- Rupert Brooke : Ante Aram
- Rupert Brooke : Beauty And Beauty
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Previous 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : 1914 Ii: Safety
- Rupert Brooke : 1914 I: Peace
- Emily Bronte : Yes, Holy Be Thy Resting Place'
- Emily Bronte : Wind Was Rough Which Tore, The
- Emily Bronte : To Imagination
- Emily Bronte : Tis Moonlight, Summer Moonlight
- Emily Bronte : The Visionary
- Emily Bronte : The Sun Has Set
- Emily Bronte : The Prisoner
- Emily Bronte : The Philosopher