We found a most lovely place for his grave, about a mile up the valley from the sea, an olive grove above a watercourse, dry now, but torrential in winter.  Two mountains flank it on either side, and Mount Khokilas is at its head.  We chose a place in the most lovely grove I have ever seen, or imagined, a little glade of about a dozen trees, carpeted with mauve-flowering sage.  Over its head droops an olive tree, and round it is a little space clear of all undergrowth.

About a quarter past nine the funeral party arrived and made their way up the steep, narrow, and rocky path that leads to the grave.  The way was so rough and uncertain that we had to have men with lamps every twenty yards to guide the bearers.  He was borne by petty officers of his own company, and so slowly did they go that it was not till nearly eleven that they reached the grave.

We buried him by cloudy moonlight.  He wore his uniform, and on the coffin were his helmet, belt, and pistol (he had no sword).  We lined the grave with flowers and olive, and Colonel Quilter laid an olive wreath on the coffin.  The chaplain who saw him in the afternoon read the service very simply.  The firing party fired three volleys and the bugles sounded the “Last Post.”

And so we laid him to rest in that lovely valley, his head towards those mountains that he would have loved to know, and his feet towards the sea.  He once said in chance talk that he would like to be buried in a Greek island.  He could have no lovelier one than Skyros, and no quieter resting place.

On his grave we heaped great blocks of white marble; the men of his company made a great wooden cross for his head, with his name upon it, and his platoon put a smaller one at his feet.  On the back of the large cross our interpreter wrote in Greek....  “Here lies the servant of God, sub-lieutenant in the English navy, who died for the deliverance of Constantinople from the Turks.”

    The next morning we sailed, and had no chance of revisiting his
    grave.

It is no mere flippancy to say that the War did much for Rupert Brooke.  The boy who had written many hot, morbid, immature verses and a handful of perfect poetry, stands now by one swift translation in the golden cloudland of English letters.  There will never, can never, be any laggard note in the praise of his work.  And of a young poet dead one may say things that would be too fulsome for life.  Professor Gilbert Murray is quoted: 

“Among all who have been poets and died young, it is hard to think of one who, both in life and death, has so typified the ideal radiance of youth and poetry.”

In the grave among the olive trees on the island of Skyros, Brooke found at least one Certainty—­that of being “among the English poets.”  He would probably be the last to ask a more high-sounding epitaph.