The Soldier

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 English air, 
Washed by the rivers, blest by 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. 

Rupert Brooke

Morning

The mist has left the greening plain, 
The dew-drops shine like fairy rain, 
The coquette rose awakes again 
Her lovely self adorning. 

The Wind is hiding in the trees, 
A sighing, soothing, laughing tease, 
Until the rose says "Kiss me, please," 
'Tis morning, 'tis morning. 

With staff in hand and careless-free, 
The wanderer fares right jauntily, 
For towns and houses are, thinks he, 
For scorning, for scorning. 
My soul is swift upon the wing, 
And in its deeps a song I bring; 
Come, Love, and we together sing, 
"'Tis morning, 'tis morning."