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Yet, behind the night, Waits for the great unborn, somewhere afar, Some white tremendous daybreak.

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.

Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?

One may not doubt that, somehow Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And sure, the reverent eye must see A purpose in Liquidity.

Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?

Spend in pure converse our eternal day; Think each in each, immediately wise; Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say What this tumultuous body now denies; And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond?

A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.

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.