With proud thanksgiving, a mother
for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
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
They went with songs
to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
with their faces to the foe.
shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them,
nor the years condemn.
the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
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;
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
- Lawrence Binyon (1869-1943)