1

     The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
         The wantonest singing birds
     Are lips—and all thy melody
         Of lip-begotten words—

                      2

     Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin’d
         Then desolately fall,
     O! God! on my funereal mind
         Like starlight on a pall—

                       3

     Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh,
         And sleep to dream till day
     Of truth that gold can never buy—
         Of the trifles that it may.

If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever 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.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
     Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
     In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.