If I should die, don't think of me at all
unless world-weary, you prefer like me
to waste your life against life's ocean-wall
and spend your freedom crying to be free.
Think then, this May, how many building whitethroats call
in England's woods, and how from every tree
blanched blossom dangles, and young girls are all
in love, and green corn slants above the sea.

I never asked for life, nor thanked who gave
me unconsulted to the angry years
in sacrifice. My Soul, not framed a slave
climbed to the clouds and with those other brave
welcomed the bullets that belied all fears
the last long dive to death, and this, our grave.