Hearts At Peace, Under An English Heaven.

A Book May Be Compared To Your Neighbor: If It Be Good, It Cannot Last Too Long; If Bad, You Cannot Get Rid Of It Too Early.

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

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.

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.

.. . . Would I Were In Grantchester, In Grantchester!