For the Fallen
Laurence Binyon
1869 to 1943
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With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There music in the midst of desolation
And a glory shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor years condemn.
At the going down of the sun in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
the innermost heart of their own land they are
As the stars are known to the Night;
As stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.