These Hearts Were Woven of Human Joys

The sun came out for a while, but the wild west wind raged without pause. Algy clung on to a sturdy branch of his favourite silver birch tree and prayed for a ceasefire in the Middle East. He thought:

          These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
                  Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
          The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
                  And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
          These had seen movement, and heard music; known
                  Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
          Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
                  Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

[From the poem The Dead by the WWI poet Rupert Brooke.]