Stands the Church clock at ten to three? And is there honey still for tea?
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
But there's wisdom in women, of more than they have known, And thoughts go blowing through them, are wiser than their own.
Hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
For Cambridge people rarely smile, Being urban, squat, and packed with guile.
If I should die, think only this of me: that there's some corner of a foreign field that is for ever England.