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Dedicated to the Memory of the Fallen who Died that me might Live

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.
These laid the world away; poured out the red.
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
   Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene
   That men call age; and those who would have been
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

—Rupert Brooke.

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