Page:Collected poems of Rupert Brooke.djvu/77

 Till mystery down the soundless valley

Thunders, and dark is here;

And the wind blows, and the light goes,

And the night is full of fear,

And I know, one night, on some far height,

In the tongue I never knew,

I yet shall hear the tidings clear

From them that were friends of you.

They'll call the news from hill to hill,

Dark and uncomforted,

Earth and sky and the winds; and I

Shall know that you are dead.

I shall not hear your trentals,

Nor eat your arval bread;

For the kin of you will surely do

Their duty by the dead.

Their little dull greasy eyes will water;

They'll paw you, and gulp afresh.

They'll sniffle and weep, and their thoughts will creep

Like flies on the cold flesh.

They will put pence on your grey eyes,

Bind up your fallen chin,

And lay you straight, the fools that loved you

Because they were your kin.