In alien earth, across a troubled sea, His body lies that was so fair and young. His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung; His arm is still, that struck to make men free. But let no cloud of lamentation be Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung. We keep the echoes of his golden tongue, We keep the vision of his chivalry. So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings, Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde. To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord; And David rests beneath Eternal wings, Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword. --Joyce Kilmer, from 'Main Street and Other Poems', 1917. Rupert Brooke I Your face was lifted to the golden sky Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air Its tumult of red stars exultantly To the cold constellations dim and high: And as we neared the roaring ruddy flare Kindled to gold your throat and brow and hair Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy. The golden head goes down into the night Quenched in cold gloom -- and yet again you stand Beside me now with lifted face alight, As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn . . . Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn, And look into my eyes and take my hand. II Once in my garret -- you being far away Tramping the hills and breathing upland air, Or so I fancied -- brooding in my chair, I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more, When, looking up, I saw you standing there Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair, Like sudden April at my open door. Though now beyond earth's farthest hills you fare, Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems to me That, if I listen very quietly, Perhaps I'll hear a light foot on the stair And see you, standing with your angel air, Fresh from the uplands of eternity. III Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy, Fulfilling even their uttermost desire, When, over a great sunlit field afire With windy poppies streaming like a sea Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously Among green orchards of that western shire, You gazed as though your heart could never tire Of life's red flood in summer revelry. And as I watched you, little thought had I How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky Your soul should wander down the darkling way, With eyes that peer a little wistfully, Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey. IV