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.