When Death has crossed my name from out the roll
Of dreaming children serving in this War;
And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more
Upon sweet England's grace - perhaps my soul
Will visit streets down which I used to stroll
At sunset-charm'd dusks, when London's roar
Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore
Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll
Of heavy bells to burden all the air
With tuneless grief: for happy will I be! -
What place on earth could ever be more fair
Than God's own presence? - Mourn not then for me,
Nor write, I pray, "He gave" - upon my clod -
"His life to England," but "his soul to God."
Isle of Sheppey, 1917.