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><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.