Memorial Day

[pqr]

Memorial Day

 

- Eula Gladys Lincoln

 

In distant field of sunny France

Where strangers come and go,

Amid the farms of Flanders, where

The fragrant breezes blow,

Our solder-dead in quiet sleep

'Neath crosses row on row.

 

Here shrapnel shells once shrieked and burst

And took their toll of death;

The very wind, itself a foe,

Bore poison on its breath.

 

Above their graves the birds now sing

As round that home of yore,

When, carefree boys, they romped and played;

Those childhood days soon o'er,

The boys to brave and strong men grown,

They romped and played no more.

 

They put aside their childish toys,

A man's work each must do,

And when their country called for them,

To her they answered true.

 

"We must protect our native land:

She shall not suffer wrong

For she has reared and nurtured us,

We're men and we are strong.

We'll bid good-bye to those we love;

It will not be for long."

 

With aching hearts and tear-dimmed eyes

We watched them go away.

Some have returned but many sleep

In foreign lands today.

 

Where English roses bloom and fade,

In France where lilies grow,

Among the fields of Flanders, where

The scarlet poppies blow,

Our soldier-dead are not forgot

Though strangers come and go.

 

 

 

God protect our troops, may we always honor them and may they have victory.

[Oney Jones]

The dead soldier’s silence sings our national anthem.

 

—Aaron Kilbourn

[Karenciavo]

:patriot:

 

This song was made famous by Oliver Wendell Holmes and is often attributed to him. It is actually a Romanian folk song from The Bard of Dimbovitza according to a wonderful old book I own titled “The School Speaker and Reader†by William Dewitt-Hyde ©1900.

 

I Am Content

A spindle of hazel-wood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day -

The water has brought it me back no more.

 

As he lay a-dying, the soldier spake:

“I am content.

Let my mother be told in the village there,

And my bride in the hut be told,

That they must pray with folded hands,

With folded hands for me.â€

The soldier is dead – and with folded hands

His bride and his mother pray.

On the field of battle they dug his grave,

And red with his life-blood the earth was dyed,

The earth they laid him in.

The sun looked down on him there and spake:

“I am content.â€

And flowers bloomed thickly upon his grave,

And were glad they blossomed there.

 

And when the wind in the tree-tops roared,

The soldier asked the deep, dark grave:

“Did the banner flutter then?â€

“Not so, my hero.†the wind replied,

“The fight is done, but the banner won,

Thy comrades of old have borne it hence,

Have borne it in triumph hence.â€

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave

“I am content.â€

 

And again he heard the shepherds pass

And the flocks go wandering by,

And the soldier asked: “Is the sound I hear

The sound of the battle's roar?â€

And they all replied: “My hero, Nay!

Thou art dead and the fight is o'er,

Our country joyful and free.â€

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

“I am content.â€

 

Then he heareth the lovers laughing pass,

And the soldier asks once more:

“Are these not the voices of them that love,

That love and remember me?â€

“Not so, my hero,†the lovers say,

“We are those that remember not;

For the spring has come and the earth has smiled,

And the dead must be forgot.â€

Then the soldier spake from the deep, dark grave:

“I am content.â€

A spindle of hazel-wood had I;

Into the mill-stream it fell one day -

The water has brought it me back no more.

[MariannNOVA]

http://www.politicsdaily.com/2010/05/29/on-memorial-day-remember-the-mothers-children-wives-and-lover/?icid=main|main|dl1|link3|http%3A%2F%2Fwww.politicsdaily.com%2F2010%2F05%2F29%2Fon-memorial-day-remember-the-mothers-children-wives-and-lover%2F

 

I was touched by this -- (link above)

 

and I remember learning this in fifth grade:

 

Poem

An autograph copy

 

 

The title piece of In Flanders Fields and Other Poems, 1919, was printed as:[4]

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

 

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

 

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

[Sebastian (a lady)]

A few years ago, we were at the Menin Gate for the Last Post Ceremony.

 

There was a moderate sized group there that evening. One gentleman read the poem, For the Fallen. You could here murmers in the crowd as here and there, someone recited along with him.

 

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.

 

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 condemn.

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 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 starts 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.

 

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)