When Death has crossed my name from out the roll Of dreaming children serving in this War; And with these earthly eyes I gaze no more Upon sweet England's grace—perhaps my soul Will visit streets down which I used to stroll At sunset-charmèd dusks, when London's roar Like ebbing surf on some Atlantic shore Would trance the ear. Then may I hear no toll Of heavy bells to burden all the air With tuneless grief: for happy will I be!— What place on earth could ever be more fair Than God's own presence?—Mourn not then for me, Nor write, I pray, " He gave "—upon my clod— " His life to England ," but " his soul to God ." Isle of Sheppey, 1917.