With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, <br />England mourns for her dead across the sea. <br />Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, <br />Fallen in the cause of the free. <br /> <br />Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal <br />Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres, <br />There is music in the midst of desolation <br />And a glory that shines upon our tears. <br /> <br />They went with songs to the battle, they were young, <br />Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow. <br />They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted; <br />They fell with their faces to the foe. <br /> <br />They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: <br />Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. <br />At the going down of the sun and in the morning <br />We will remember them. <br /> <br />They mingle not with their laughing comrades again; <br />They sit no more at familiar tables of home; <br />They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; <br />They sleep beyond England's foam. <br /> <br />But where our desires are and our hopes profound, <br />Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight, <br />To the innermost heart of their own land they are known <br />As the stars are known to the Night; <br /> <br />As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust, <br />Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain; <br />As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness, <br />To the end, to the end, they remain.<br /><br />Robert Laurence Binyon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-the-fallen-4/
