Because you are dead, so many words they say,
If you could hear them, how they crowd, they crowd;
" Dying for England — but you must be proud " —
And " Greater love, honour, a debt to pay, "
And " Cry dear, " someone says; and someone " Pray! "
What do they mean, their words that throng so loud?

This, dearest; that for us there will not be
Laughter and joy of living dwindling cold,
Ashes of words that dropped in flame, first told;
Stale tenderness, made foolish suddenly.
This only, heart's desire, for you and me,
We who lived love, will not see love grow old.

We who had morning time and crest o' the wave
Will have no twilight chill after the gleam,
Nor any ebb-tide with a sluggish stream;
No, nor clutch wisdom as a thing to save
We keep for ever (and yet they call me brave)
Untouched, unbroken, unrebuilt , our dream.