The Cool Kindliness Of Sheets,

If I Should Die, Think Only This Of Me: That There's 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.

But There's Wisdom In Women, Of More Than They Have Known, And Thoughts Go Blowing Through Them, Are Wiser Than Their Own.

Yet, Behind The Night, Waits For The Great Unborn, Somewhere Afar, Some White Tremendous Daybreak.

For Cambridge People Rarely Smile, Being Urban, Squat, And Packed With Guile.

One May Not Doubt That, Somehow Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.