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 the suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


This made me rather weepy.

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Literary Life: November in Review | ofBooksJenny @ Reading the EndAliceViolet Recent comment authors

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Poor Rupert. I don’t like the way they used his poetry for propaganda purposes and the way that caused people not to like him for the longest time. He made some beautiful poems but he died before most of the carnage and the public turning away from supporting the war. Poor Rupert. He deserved better.

Jenny @ Reading the End

No matter how many times I encounter this poem (and I’ve encountered it a LOT), the line “that is forever England” wrecks me every time. Way to go Rupert Brooks.


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