III. The Dead
Rupert Brooke 1887 (Rugby) – 1915 (Aegean Sea)
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.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on April 17, 2023
- 36 sec read
- 119 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABBACXXC DXDXXX |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 623 |
Words | 120 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 8, 6 |
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"III. The Dead" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 29 Apr. 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/33691/iii.--the-dead>.
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