There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
The “we” in this line, we can assume, is the English nation. The sacrifice of the young men has engendered a new state of heroism and nobility. 
 And so an awkward and not quite satisfactory poem is brought to its conclusion. The smooth flow masks some illogicalities, though we should bear in mind that we have the advantage of hindsight, and Brooke was echoing the commonly held views of the time.
III. The Dead