One of our American poets, George Edward Woodberry, has beautifully said:
There is a grave in Scyros, amid the white and pinkish marble of the isle, the wild thyme and the poppies, near the green and blue waters. There Rupert Brooke was buried. Thither have gone the thoughts of his countrymen, and the hearts of the young especially. It will long be so. For a new star shines in the English heavens.
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England—
"Take us and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the song on your bugles blown,
England—
To the stars on your bugles blown."
W.E. Henley.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] BASED ON "THE COLLECTED POEMS OF RUPERT BROOKE," COPYRIGHT BY JOHN LANE COMPANY.