Their Immortality

Who says that ye are dead, ye Albion sons,
Youth strong in flesh, Olympian in brain,
Who sleep there in France where boom'd the guns,
Near Ypres, Loos, or by the silvery Aisne ?
Who says for you the splendid day is o'er,
That your high purpose merges from the light ?
Who will deny that on, for evermore,
Your star will flash, a splendour in the night ?
While Mons doth hold her crown of Fortitude ;
While Memory holds the bravery of the Aisne ;
While from Gallipoli, that headland rude,
There rise the ghosts of the unconquer'd slain ;
So from the tombs of Freedom ye will rise,
Like some old yew whose glory never dies.