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The Dead a poem by Rupert Brooke

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. 


These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, 
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. 
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, 
And sunset, and the colours of the earth. 
These had seen movement, and heard music; known 
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; 
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; 
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter 
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, 
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance 
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white 
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, 
A width, a shining peace, under the night

The Dead
Rupert Brooke

The Dead a poem by Rupert Brooke

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

1914 III & IV - The Dead

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