In Memory of Rupert Brooke
In alien earth, across a troubled sea,His body lies that was so fair and young.His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;His arm is still, that struck to make men free.But let no cloud of lamentation beWhere, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,We keep the vision of his chivalry.So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.To-day the starry roof of Heaven ringsWith psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;And David rests beneath Eternal wings,Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.
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