Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!

There's none of these so loney 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.

- Rupert Brooke -