"And when we die, All’s over that is ours; and life burns on Through other lovers, other lips," said I —"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won… - Rupert Brooke

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 conceal’d;
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. Wash’d 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.

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.

Cities, like cats, will reveal themselves at night.