The Fallen

I Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so loney and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality. Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth, Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain. Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,          And paid his subjects with a royal wage; And Nobleness walks in our ways again;          And we have come into our heritage. II These hearts were woven of human joys and cares Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth. The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs, And sunset, and the colours of the earth. These had seen movement and heard music; known Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended; Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone; Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended. There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after, Frost with a gesture, stays the waves that dance And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance, A width, a shining peace, under the night.

Rupert Brooke

Here, where we stood together, we three men, Before the war had swept us to the East Three thousand miles away, I stand again And hear the bells, and breathe, and go to feast. We trod the same path, to the selfsame place, Yet here I stand, having beheld their graves, Skyros whose shadows the great seas erase, And Seddul Bahr that ever more blood craves. So, since we communed here, our bones have been Nearer, perhaps, than they again will be, Earth and the worldwide battle lie between, Death lies between, and friend-destroying sea. Yet here, a year ago, we talked and stood As I stnad now, with pulses beating blood. I saw her like a shadow on the sky In the last light, a blur upon the sea, Then the gale's darkness put the shadow by, But from one grave that island talked to me; And, in the midnight, in the breaking storm, I saw its blackness and a blinking light, And thought, "So death obscures your gentle form, So memory strives to make the darkness bright; And, in that heap of rocks, your body lies, Part of the island till the planet ends, My gentle comrade, beautiful and wise, Part of this crag this bitter surge offends, While I, who pass, a little obscure thing, War with this force, and breathe, and am its king."

John Masefield

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 not grow 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 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.

Laurence Binyon

I Saints have adored the lofty soul of you. Poets have whitened at your high renown. We stand among the many millions who Do hourly wait to pass your pathway down. You, so familiar, once were strange: we tried To live as of your presence unaware. But now in every road on every side We see your straight and steadfast signpost there. I think it like that signpost in my land Hoary and tall, which pointed me to go Upward, into the hills, on the right hand, Where the mists swim and the winds shriek and blow, A homeless land and friendless, but a land I did not know and that I wished to know. II Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been. And this we know: Death is not Life, effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet. Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

Charles Hamilton Sorley June 12, 1915

Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! Not one of these poor men who died But did within his soul believe That death for thee was glorified. Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! -- Heard and obeyed. O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.

Walter de la Mare

No more old England will they see -- Those men who've died for you and me. So lone and cold they lie; but we, We still hve life; we still may greet Our pleasant friends in home and street; We still have life, are able still To climb the turf of Bignor Hill, To see the placid sheep go by, To hear the sheep-dog's eager cry, To feel the sun, to taste the rain, To smell the Autumn's scents again Beneath the brown and gold and red Which old October's brush has spread, To hear the robin in the lane, To look upon the English sky. So young they were, so strong and well, Until the bitter summons fell -- Too young to die. Yet there on foreign soil they lie, So pitiful, with glassy eye And limbs all rumbled anyhow: Quite finished, now. On every heart -- lest we forget -- Secure at home -- engrave this debt! Too delicate is flesh to be The shield that nations interpose 'Twixt red Ambition and his foes -- The bastion of Liberty. So beautiful their bodies were, Built with so exquisite a care: So young and fit and lithe and fair. The very flower of us were they, The very flower, but yesterday! Yet now so pitiful they lie, Where love of country bade them hie To fight this fierce Caprice -- and die. All mangled now, where shells have burst, And lead and steel have done their worst; The tender tissues ploughed away, The years' slow processes effaced: The Mother of us all -- disgraced. And some leave wives behind, young wives; Already some have launched new lives: A little daughter, little son -- For thus this blundering world goes on. But never more will any see The old secure felicity, The kindness that made us glad Before the world went mad. They'll never hear another bird, Another gay or loving word -- Those men who lie so cold and lone, Far in a country not their own; Those men who died for you and me, That England still might sheltered be And all our lives go on the same (Although to live is almost shame).

E.V. Lucas

In lonely watches night by night Great visions burst upon my sight, For down the stretches of the sky The hosts of dead go marching by. Strange ghostly banners o'er them float, Strange bugles sound an awful note, And all their faces and their eyes Are lit with starlight from the skies. The anguish and the pain have passed And peace hath come to them at last, But in the stern looks linger still The iron purpose and the will. Dear Christ, who reign'st above the flood Of human tears and human blood, A weary road these men have trod, O house them in the home of God!

Frederick George Scott In a Field near Ypres April, 1915

Ye sleepers, who will sing you? We can but give our tears -- Ye dead men, who shall bring you Fame in the coming years? Brave souls . . . but who remembers The flame that fired your embers? . . . Deep, deep the sleep that holds you Who one time had no peers. Yet maybe Fame's but seeming And praise you'd set aside, Content to go on dreaming, Yea, happy to have died If of all things you prayed for -- All things your valour paid for -- One prayer is not forgotten, One purchase not denied. But God grants your dear England A strength that shall not cease Till she have won for all the Earth From ruthless men release, And made supreme upon her Mercy and Truth and Honour -- Is this the thing you died for? Oh, Brothers, sleep in peace!

Robert Ernest Vernède

Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven, God bids the old soldier they all adored Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven, A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord. Lest it abash them, the strange new splendour, Lest it affright them, the new robes clean; Here's an old face, now, long-tried, and tender, A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in. "My boys," he greets them: and heaven is homely, He their great captain in days gone o'er; Dear is the friend's face, honest and comely, Waiting to welcome them by the strange door.

Katharine Tynan

Unflinching hero, watchful to foresee And face thy country's peril wheresoe'er, Directing war and peace with equal care, Till by long toil ennobled thou wert he Whom England call'd and bade "Set my arm free To obey my will and save my honour fair," -- What day the foe presumed on her despair And she herself had trust in none but thee: Among Herculean deeds the miracle That mass'd the labour of ten years in one Shall be thy monument. Thy work was done Ere we could thank thee; and the high sea swell Surgeth unheeding where thy proud ship fell By the lone Orkneys, at the set of sun.

Robert Bridges June 8, 1916

There is wild water from the north; The headlands darken in their foam As with a threat of challenge stubborn earth Booms at that far wild sea-line charging home. The night shall stand upon the shifting sea As yesternight stood there, And hear the cry of waters through the air, The iron voice of headlands start and rise -- The noise of winds for mastery That screams to hear the thunder in those cries. But now henceforth there shall be heard From Brough of Bursay , Marwick Head, And shadows of the distant coast, Another voice bestirred -- Telling of something greatly lost Somewhere below the tidal glooms, and dead. Beyond the uttermost Of aught the night may hear on any seas From tempest-known wild water's cry, and roar Of iron shadows looming from the shore, It shall be heard, and when the Orcades Sleep in a hushed Atlantic's starry folds As smoothly as, far down below the tides, Sleep on the windelss broad sea-wolds Where this night's shipwreck hides. By many a sea-holm where the shock Of ocean's battle falls, and into spray Gives up its ghosts of strife; by reef and rock Ravaged by their eternal brute affray With monstrous frenzies of their shore's green foe; Where overstream and overfall and undertow Strive, snatch away; A wistful voice, without a sound, Shall dwell beside Pomona, on the sea, And speak the homeward- and the outward-bound, And touch the helm of passing minds And bid them steer as wistfully -- Saying: "He did great work, until the winds And waters hereabout that night betrayed Him to the drifting death! His work went on -- He would not be gainsaid. . . . Though where his bones are, no man knows, not one!"

John Helston

The starshells float above, the bayonets glisten; We bear our fallen friend without a sound; Below the waiting legions lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground. Wound in the flag of England, here we lay him; The guns will flash and thunder o'er the grave; What other winding sheet should now array him, What other music should salute the brave? As goes the Sun-god in his chariot glorious, When all his golden banners are unfurled, So goes the soldier, fallen but victorious, And leaves behind a twilight in the world. And those who come this way, in days hereafter, Will know that here a boy for England fell, Who looked at danger with the eyes of laughter, And on the charge his days were ended well. One last salute; the bayonets clash and glisten; With arms reversed we go without a sound: One more has joined the men who lie and listen To us, who march upon their burial-ground.

Herbert Asquith 1915

What have I given, Bold sailor on the sea? In earth or heaven, That you should die for me? What can I give, O soldier, leal and brave, Long as I live, To pay the life you gave? What tithe or part Can I return to thee, O stricken heart, That thou shouldst break for me? The wind of Death For you has slain life's flowers, It withereth (God grant) all weeds in ours.

F.W. Bourdillon

"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench -- and three Whispered their last messages to me. . . ." Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: "I cannot quite rmember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench,a nd three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . . "Their friends and waiting, wondering how they thrive -- Wating a word in silence patiently. . . . But what they said, or who their friends may be "I cannot quite remember. . . . There where five Dropt dead beside me in the trench -- and three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . ."

Wilfrid Wilson Gibson

In the face of death, they say, he joked -- he had no fear: His comrades, when they laid him in a Flanders grave, Wrote on a rough-hewn cross -- a Calvary stood near -- "Without fear he gave His life, cheering his men, with laughter on his lips." So wrote they, mourning him. Yet was there only one Who fully understood his laughter, his gay quips, One only, she alone -- She who, not so long since, when love was new-confest, Herself toyed with light laughter while her eyes were dim, And jested, while with reverence despite her jest She worshipped God and him. She knew -- O Love, O Death! -- his soul had been at grips With the most solemn things. For she, was she not dear? Yes, he was brave, most brave, with laughter on his lips The braver for his fear!

G. Rostrevor Hamilton

Not long did we lie on the torn, red field of pain. We fell, we lay, we slumbered, we took rest, With the wild nerves quiet at last, and the vexed brain Cleared of the wingèd nightmares, and the breast Freed of the heavy dreams of hearts afar. We rose at last under the morning star. We rose, and greeted our brothers, and welcomed our foes. We rose; like the wheat when the wind is over, we rose. With shouts we rose, with gasps and incredulous cries, With bursts of singing, and silence, and awestruck eyes, With broken laughter, half tears, we rose from the sod, With welling tears and with glad lips, whispering, "God." Like babes, refreshed from sleep, like children, we rose, Brimming with deep content, from our dreamless repose. And, "What do you call it?" asked one. "I thought I was dead." "You are," cried another. "We're all of us dead and flat." "I'm alive as a cricket. There's something wrong with your head." They stretched their limbs and argued it out where they sat. And over the wide field friend and foe Spoke of small things, remembering not old woe Of war andhunger, hatred and fierce words. They sat and listened to the brooks and birds, And watched the starlight perish in pale flame Wondering what God would look like when He came.

Hermann Hagedorn

We may not know how fared your soul before Occasion came to try it by this test. Perchance, it used on lofty wings to soar; Again, it may have dwelt in lowly nest. We do not know if bygone knightly strain Impelled you then, or blood of humble clod Defied the dread adventure to attain The cross of honor or the peace of God. We see but this, that when the moment came You raised on high, then drained, the solemn cup -- The grail of death; that, touched by valor's flame, The kindled spirit burned the body up.

Oscar C.A. Child

I never knew you save as all men know Twitter of mating birds, flutter of wings In April coverts, and the streams that flow -- One of the happy voices of our Springs. A voice for ever stilled, a memory, Since you went eastward with the fighting ships, A hero of the great new Odyssey, And God has laid His finger on your lips.

Moray Dalton

We challenged Death. He threw with weighted dice. We laughed and paid the forfeit, glad to pay -- Being recompensed beyond our sacrifice With that nor Death nor Time can take away.

Francis Bickley

O, red is the English rose, And the lilies of France are pale, And the poppies grow in the golden wheat, For the men whose eyes are heavy with sleep, Where the ground is red as the English rose, And the lips as the lilies of France are pale, And the ebbing pulses beat fainter and fainter and fail. Oh, red is the English rose, And the lilies of France are pale. And the poppies lie in the level corn For the men who sleep and never return. But wherever they lie an English rose So red, and lily of France so pale, Will grow for a love that never and never can fail.

Charles Alexander Richmond