Though we, a happy few,
Indubitably knew
That from the purple came
This poet of pure flame,
The world first saw his light
Flash on an evil night,
And heard his song from far
Above the drone of war.
Out of the primal dark
He leapt, like lyric lark,
Singing his aubade strain;
Then fell to earth again.
We garner all he gave,
And on his hero grave,
For love and honour strew,
Rosemary, myrtle, rue.
Son of the Morning, we
Had kept you thankfully;
But yours the asphodel:
Hail, singer, and farewell!
--Eden Phillpotts, from 'Plain Song, 1914-1916'.