If I should die think only this of me That there is some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust con

If I should die think only this of me That there is some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.