Another guest post from The Hilltop Watchman, contrasting our great literary history with todays world
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.