For the Fallen, by Laurence Binyon Source: The London Times (1914)

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.

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.

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.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

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.

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;

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.

Rupert Brooke

Somewhere upon the far Aegean sea,
In nineteen fifteen, April twenty-three,
A dirge was blown whose sorrow seemed to be
A cry that pierced the bottom of the deep.

It was a spirit cry from out the blue. . .
Too full for tears. . . too deep for anguish, too,
For that great soul to keep his rendezvous
Though his departure made a world to weep.

So now the Isle of Scyros knows a grave
Where green. . . and soft blue. . . waters ever lave
"A richer dust whom England made aware,"
And in that dust there is a deathless thing
That will stay ageless. . . while our lips can sing. . .
And England lives. . . and hearts can love and care.

CLYDE J. HUNNICUTT.

The Spires Of Oxford (seen from the train)

I saw the spires of Oxford
As I was passing by,
The gray spires of Oxford
Against a pearl-gray sky,
My heart was with the Oxford men
Who went abroad to die.
The years go fast in Oxford
The golden years and gay,
The hoary Colleges look down
On careless boys at play.
But when the bugles sounded war
They put their games away.

They left the peaceful river,
The cricket field, the quad,
The shaven lawns of Oxford
To seek a bloody sod
They gave their merry youth away
For country and for God.
God rest you, happy gentlemen,
Who laid your good lives down,
Who took the khaki and the gun
Instead of cap and gown.
God bring you to a fairer place
Than even Oxford town.

Winifred M. Letts

Rougue Bouquet

 In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
 There is a new-made grave today,
Built by never a spade nor pick
 Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
 There lie many fighting" men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
 Nor taste the Summertime.
 For Death came flying through the air
 And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
 Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.

He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
 And fled away.

 Now over the grave abrupt and clear
 Three volleys ring;
 And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing: "Go to sleep! Go to sleep!
 Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell.
 Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger's past;
Now at last,
Go to sleep!"

 There is on earth no worthier grave
 To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
 Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
 Smiling with their holy eyes
 On this new-come band.
St. Michael's sword darts through the air
 And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them standing at salute there,
His stalwart sons:
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill,
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
 The Gael's blood runs.
 And up to Heaven's doorway floats,
 From the wood called Rouge Bouquet,
 A delicate cloud of bugle notes
 That softly say:
"Farewell! Farewell.
Comrades true, born anew., peace to you!
 Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
 Brave 'and dear,
 Shield us here.
Farewell!"

March 7, 1918
Joyce Kilmer

One world

We are participants, whether we would or not, in the life of the world. The interests of all nations are our own also. What affects mankind is inevitably our affair, as well as the affair of the nations of Europe and Asia. (From Speech, May 1916)

Woodrow Wilson

BINGEN ON THE RHINE

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of

        woman's tears,

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood

        ebbed away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might

        say.

The dying soldier faltered as he took that comrade's

        hand.

And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native

        land;

Take a message and a token to some distant friends of

mine, For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet

        and crowd around

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard

        ground,

That w~ fought the battle bravely, and when the day

        was done

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting

        sun.

"And 'mid the dead and dying were some grown old

        in wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last at

        many scars;

But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's mom

        decline,

And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the

        Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her

         old age,

For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a

cage,

For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce

and wild;

And when he died and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's­

          sword,

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright li~ht

          used to shine

On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen on the

          Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

        head,

When the troops come marching home again with glad

        and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly" with a calm and stead­

        fast eye,

For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to

die.

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly. without regret or sharile.

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's

         sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen--d.ear Bingen on the Rhine.

,"There's another-not a sister: in the happy days gone

         by,

You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled

in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, 0 friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometImes

         heaviest mourning;

"Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be

risen My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

        shine

On the vinec1ad hills of Bingen-fair Bingen on the

        Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed

        to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and

clear, And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm

       and still;                                                                         ,

And her glad blue eyes were on me as we. passed with

        friendly talk

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remem­

        bered walk,

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine; But we'll meetno more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the

Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,-his grasp

        was childish weak"­

His eyes put on a dying look-he sighed and ceased to

        speak;

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had

fled­

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked

        down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody cors€s

        strawn;

Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed

          to shine.

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

                                                                        Caroline Norton.