A Golden Brooke
He lives upon a printed page,
marching golden in a dream.
His words described a brighter age --
which quaffed the milk and lapped the cream.
Fate brought him forth to love and live --
scion of a proud and noble race.
All he sacrificed and all he'd give
was deeply marked upon his face.
No gold survives the final frost:
in his prime death carried him away.
In wars, a nation's best are lost;
as then it happens still today.
His home was England, vale and hill;
across the years, he's with us still.
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