Spring 15

I usually start with a song and end with a cadence, however today I shall do neither.

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

Most would bemoan his trite sentimentalism; many would question his gorgeous looks as an apercu sans penser, but I still believe he was on the right track.

To those that are not aware, his name is Brooke. Rupert Brooke. And hares come out before the corn, and there ain't no bleeding blithering dawn, but there still remains with me, a slice of toast; honey for tea.