| Rupert Brooke (1887–1915). Collected Poems. 1916. |
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| IV. 1914 |
| 3. III. The Dead |
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| 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 | 5 |
| Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, | |
| That men call age; and those who would have been, | |
| Their sons, they gave, their immortality. | |
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| Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, | |
| Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. | 10 |
| 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. | |
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