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.

Note

• The Virtual Seminars for Teaching Literature provides a literary criticism of III. The Dead and some of Brooke's poems, as well as links to other "war poets".

Related War Poetry

N.B. -- This poem is part of the 1914 series of poems written by Brooke just before he was shipped to the Dardanelles during the early part of World War I.

1. The "Lost Poets" from Emory U. English Department provides an online anthology of poets who died during the "great war".
2. The Virtual Seminars for Teaching Literature from Oxford University has a more extensive online resource of the War Poets.