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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BATTLE OF THE KEGS by FRANCIS HOPKINSON THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 22 by OMAR KHAYYAM THE CLOUDS: SOCRATES' EXPERIMENTS by ARISTOPHANES WHAT SAID THE LITTLE ADMIRAL? by WILLIAM ROSE BENET OUR LADY by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES I WOULD I COULD DANCE by HELEN M. BROUGH THE ROCK OF LIBERTY; A PILGRIM ODE, 1629-1920: 1. VISION by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN FO'C'S'LE YARNS: 2D SERIES. DEDICATION by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |