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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=511241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Dead</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=511241" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!<br>There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,<br>But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.<br>These laid the world away; poured out the red<br>Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be<br>Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,<br>That men call age; and those who would have been,<br>Their sons, they gave, their immortality.<br>Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,<br>Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.<br>Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,<br>And paid his subjects with a royal wage;<br>And Nobleness walks in our ways again;<br>And we have come into our heritage.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Rupert+Brooke">Rupert Brooke</a></strong></div>

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