On The Eleventh Day, At The Eleventh Hour…

For the Fallen

By Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mom for her kids, 
England mourns for her useless around the sea. 
Flesh of her flesh they have been, spirit of her spirit, 
Fallen in the reason for the unfastened.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal 
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, 
There is tune in the middle of desolation 
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the fight, they have been younger, 
Straight of limb, true of eye, stable and aglow. 
They have been staunch to the top towards odds uncounted; 
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall develop now not outdated, as we which can be left develop outdated: 
Age shall now not weary them, nor the years contemn. 
At the happening of the solar and within the morning 
We will consider them.
They mingle now not with their giggling comrades once more; 
They sit down not more at acquainted tables of house; 
They haven’t any lot in our labour of the day-time; 
They sleep past England’s foam.
But the place our needs are and our hopes profound, 
Felt as a well-spring this is hidden from sight, 
To the innermost middle of their very own land they’re recognized 
As the celebrities are recognized to the Night;
As the celebrities that will probably be vivid once we are mud, 
Moving in marches upon the heavenly simple; 
As the celebrities which can be starry within the time of our darkness, 

To the top, to the top, they continue to be.