The Poetry Corner

The Last Post

By Robert von Ranke Graves

The bugler sent a call of high romance, "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square. On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, "God, if it's this for me next time in France ... O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with the other broken ones Lying so stiff and still under the sky, Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die."