The Dead: IV (Rupert Brooke Poem)
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given ...
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given ...
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given ...
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, ...
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares, Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given ...
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, ...
Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights. Ah, the delirious weeks ...
Down the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow, Now tread the far ...
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ...
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ...
When colour goes home into the eyes, And lights that shine are shut again, With dancing girls and sweet birds' ...
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, ...
If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ...
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