1914 III: The Dead
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.
Rupert Brooke's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (1914 III: The Dead by Rupert Brooke )
Did you read them?
- Fragile, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- GAHZAL, ROCHISH MON
- Perfectly Loveable, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- Your 2 Blame, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- Love is a wonder, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- A Hug To Say I Love You, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- How Do You?, Saturday Chikezie Promise
- My religion, gajanan mishra
- Self-centered, Somanathan Iyer
- Human Male, Nalini Jyotsana Chaturvedi
Poem of the Day
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- The City Planners, Margaret Atwood
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- On His Blindness, John Milton
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- Heather Burns
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)