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They mingle not with laughing comrades again; They sit no more at familiar tables of home; They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound, Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, To the innermost heart of their own land they are known As the stars are known to the Night;
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Thats deep Grido, like my swimming pool - that I dont have.
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good poem...but the one that get me all the time is one: http://www.ppu.org.uk/learn/poetry/poetry_ww1_3.html
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