If I should die, think only this of me:

⁠⁠    That there’s some corner of a foreign field

That is for ever England. There shall be

⁠⁠    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;

A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,

⁠⁠    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,

A body of England’s, breathing English air,

⁠⁠    Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,

⁠⁠    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less

⁠⁠⁠    ⁠    Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;

Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;

⁠⁠    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,

⁠⁠⁠    ⁠    In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.