In the heart of Britain's darkest hour,
When the clouds of war did loom,
Young men rose with steadfast power,
Defenders of our land and home.

Up they soared, into the fire,
Wings of steel, hearts of gold.
Guided by a nation's desire,
Brave and bold, their story told.

Oh, Heroes in the skies, you answered the call,
With valour and might, you gave it your all.
Churchill's words forever true,
So much owed by so many, to so few.

In the blue where eagles fly,
With courage that will never fade,
They faced the storm, they touched the sky,
Their legacy in history laid.

Through the flak and roaring thunder,
Guardians of the free and fair.
Their sacrifice, we remember,
Echoes of their daring air.

From the cliffs of Dover to London’s heart,
Their spirit lives, it won’t depart.
In every field and rolling hill,
Their courage stands, enduring still.

From Spitfires’ wings to Hurricane’s roar,
They held the line, they won the war.
A grateful land, forever more,
Salutes the airmen, who fought before.

So let the banners wave on high,
And let the songs of praise be heard.
For those who soared into the sky,
We'll ne'er forget their noble word.

Oh, Heroes in the skies, we remember you,
With eternal thanks, our hearts renew.
For never in history, such courage did ensue,
So much owed by so many, to so few.

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
—Yes, but not this alone.

Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more loosely strung?

Yes, this, and more; but not,
Ah! ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ’twould be.
’Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,—
A golden day’s decline.

’Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more.

It is to spend long days,
And not once feel that we were ever young;
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel.
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion,—none.

It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost,
Which blamed the living man.