Blow bugles blow
Out over the rich dead
There are none of these so lonely
And poor of old
That dying
Has made us rarer gifts than gold
These, who laid the world away
Poured out the sweet wine of youth
Gave up the years to be
The unsown harvest
The unhoped serene
Blow bugles blow
Out over the rich dead
there are none of these so lonely
And poor of old
King Feargail, "I, Decend"
This certain poem, passed on through my family.
I cannot claim as my own, though it holds special meaning for me
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