They need no dirge, for Springtime fills

All things with tribute unto them;

The music of the daffodils

Shall be a soldier's requiem

Among a thousand hills.

Blow, golden trumpets, mournfully,

For all the golden youth that's fled,

For all the shattered dreams that lie

Where God has laid the quiet dead

But blow triumphant music, too,

Across the world from sea to sea,

Because the heart of youth was true,

Because our England proved to be

Even greater than we knew.