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 : The Dead ( Ii )
- Rupert Brooke : The Dead: Iv
- Rupert Brooke : The Fish
- Rupert Brooke : The Funeral Of Youth: Threnody
- Rupert Brooke : The Goddess In The Wood
- Rupert Brooke : The Great Lover
- Rupert Brooke : The Hill
- Rupert Brooke : The Jolly Company
- Rupert Brooke : The Life Beyond
- Rupert Brooke : The Little Dog's Day
Previous 10 Poems
- Rupert Brooke : The Dance
- Rupert Brooke : The Chilterns
- Rupert Brooke : The Charm
- Rupert Brooke : The Call
- Rupert Brooke : The Busy Heart
- Rupert Brooke : The Beginning
- Rupert Brooke : Success
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet: Oh! Death Will Find Me, Long Before I Tire
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet: I Said I Splendidly Loved You; It's Not True
- Rupert Brooke : Sonnet Reversed