A Fallen Leaf

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-charmed 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.”