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...ANIMAL TRANQUILITY AND DECAY; A SKETCH by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH LA BEAUTE by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE BLANDID'S SONG, FR. THE CRIER BY NIGHT by GORDON BOTTOMLEY AN OLD DREAM by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SUMMING UP ITALY; INSCRIBED TO INTELLIGENT PUBLICS OUT OF IT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING PAN AND LUNA by ROBERT BROWNING TO AN AIR ON THE SAMISEN by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON TEN YEARS HAVE PASSED; ON VIEWING WAR GRAVES AT VERDUN, 1928 by DON MAITLAND BUSHBY |