MOUNTING his stairs of azure and of gold,
The English lark sings in the August weather
For joy which knoweth neither tie nor tether
And is not troubled if the world grows old;
While you, who were as blithesome and as bold,
Sleep the high sleep that dead men sleep together,
Careless of what is done and what is told.
I know that all our England shone before you
When you went down. It made a radiance
Even of the front of Death. Oh, woman's son,
You died for England . . . valiant as she that bore you,
And sent you forth with a still countenance,
And broke her heart for England and lives on!