If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's
some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever 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, breathing English air,
Washed by the
rivers, blest by
suns of
home.
Rupert Brooke