THEY need no dirge, for Spring-time fills
All things with tribute unto them:
The music of the daffodils
Shall be a soldier's requiem
Among a thousand hills.
Blow, golden trumpets, mournfully,
For all the golden youth far-fled;
For all the shattered dreams that lie
Where God has laid the quiet dead
Under an alien sky.
But blow triumphant music, too,
Across the world, from sea to sea,
Because the heart of youth was true,
Because our England proved to be
Even greater than we knew.
