| For The Fallen |
| |
| With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, |
| England mourns for her dead across the sea. |
| Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, |
| Fallen in the cause of the free. |
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| Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal |
| Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, |
| There is music in the midst of desolation |
| And a glory that shines upon our tears. |
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| They went with songs to the battle, they were young, |
| Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. |
| They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; |
| They fell with their faces to the foe. |
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| They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: |
| Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. |
| At the going down of the sun and in the morning |
| We will remember them. |
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| They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; |
| They sit no more at familiar tables of home; |
| They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; |
| They sleep beyond England's foam. |
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| But where our desires are and our hopes profound, |
| Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, |
| To the innermost heart of their own land they are known |
| As the stars are known to the Night; |
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| As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, |
| Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; |
| As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, |
| To the end, to the end, they remain. |
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| Laurence Binyon |
| 1914 |
