literature, poetry

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 suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,/ A pulse in the eternal mind, no less/ Gives somewhere back the thoughts that 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.