One May Not Doubt That, Somehow Good

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's Some Corner Of A Foreign Field That Is Forever England. There Shall Be In That Rich Earth A Richer Dust Concealed; A Dust Whom England Bore, Shaped, Made Aware, Gave, Once, Her Flowers To Love, Her Ways To Roam, A Body Of England's, Breathing English Air, Washed By The Rivers, Blest By Suns Of Home.

Proud, Then, Clear-eyed And Laughing, Go To Greet Death As A Friend!

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.

Just Now The Lilac Is In Bloom All Before My Little Room.

Cities, Like Cats, Will Reveal Themselves At Night.