Soldier (The)

I know I'll die, you'll never think of me:
There'll be
some corner of a foreign field
That will never be England.
There shall be
In that rich earth much poor dust concealed;

The dust of countless English born, unaware
of
flowers of love, of ways to roam,
Bodies of England,
breathing poison gas,
Washed by mud in trenches, wasted sons
of home.

Forget this heart, all good shed away,

A pulse in Flander's field, no more
Enduring black
the death by England given;
Dread sights, cruel sounds,
nightmares everyday,
And hatred, learnt of enemies; and
biterness,
In heartless war, inside a soldier's hell.