Sunday, 11 November, is our Poppy day, when we commemorate our fallen warriors. It is ,of course, the date of the WW1 armistice, and the fallen grow not old as we have done.We are still adding to their numbers, even today. God Bless Them, every one.

When I would muse in boyhood
The wild green woods among,
And nurse resolves and fancies
Because the world was young,

It was not foes to conquer,
Nor sweethearts to be kind,
But it was friends to die for
That I would seek and find.

I sought them and I found them,
The sure, the straight, the brave,
The hearts I lost my own to,
The souls I could not save.

They braced their belts around them,
They crossed in ships the sea,
They sought and found six feet of ground,
And there they died for me.

A.E.HOUSEMAN.


*

Its is the soldier, not the reporter
Who has given us Freedom of the Press
It is the soldier, not the poet
Who has given us Freedom of Speech
It is the soldier, not the campus organiser
Who has given us the Freedom to Demonstrate
It is the soldier who serves beneath the flag
Who salutes the flag
Whose coffin is drapped in the flag
Who allows the protester to burn the flag
It is the soldier, not the politician
who has given his blood, his body, his life
Who has given us these freedoms

"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".

The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
And out we troop to see;
A single redcoat turns his head,
He turns and looks at me.

My man, from sky to sky's so far,
We never crossed before;
Such leagues apart the world's ends are,
We're like to meet no more;

What thoughts at heart have you and I
We cannot stop to tell;
But dead or living, drunk or dry,
Soldier, I wish you well.

AE Houseman.

*

• The Anxious Dead
  
  • O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
    Above their heads the legions pressing on:
    (These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
    And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
    
    O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
    The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
    Then let your mighty chorus witness be
    To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
    
    Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
    That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
    That we will onward till we win or fall,
    That we will keep the faith for which they died.
    
    Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
    They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
    Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
    And in content may turn them to their sleep.
    
  John McCrae
  

Lest We Forget
A Tribute to My Dad and all Veterans
(A tribute to the author's father and other veterans). [Visit the site for more poem/references].

A SOLDIER'S PRAYER
Dear Lord
Please let me have regular dreams like others do
Not these nightmares of memory
Let my dreams be filled with light and joy
Not smoke and terror
Let me hear the laughter of children
Not the screams of men dying
Let the birds fill the air with song
Not the sounds of bombs and bullets
Let the rivers run pure and clear
Not red with blood
Let everyone be healthy and whole
Not missing limbs and faces
Let the earth look as you made it
Not scorched and cratered
Let me wake up smiling
Not searching for the enemy
Let the sweat on my pillow be from summer's heat
Not the sweat of fear and anxiety
but dear Lord most of all
I beg you
Please don't let my children or their children
pray to you as I am doing tonight
Amen

http://msbeliever.tripod.com/WWII.html



AS ONE FELLOW VETERAN TO ANOTHER,

AS THE POEM SAYS, LEST WE FORGET.

... FAIR WINDS AND FOLLOWING SEAS ...

. . . . . . . . JOB WELL DONE . . . . . . . . . .

Wake not for the world-heard thunder
Not the chime that earthquakes toll.
Star may plot in heaven with planet,
Lightning rive the rock of granite,
Tempest tread the oakwood under:
Fear you not for flesh nor soul.
Marching, fighting, victory past,
Stretch your limbs in peace at last.


Stir not for the soldiers drilling
Nor the fever nothing cures:
Throb of drum and timbal's rattle
Call but man alive to battle,
And the fife with death-notes filling
Screams for blood but not for yours.
Times enough you bled your best;
Sleep on now, and take your rest.


Sleep, my lad; the French are landed,
London's burning, Windsor's down;
Clasp your cloak of earth about you,
We must man the ditch without you,
March unled and fight short-handed,
Charge to fall and swim to drown.
Duty, friendship, bravery o'er,
Sleep away, lad; wake no more.

AE Houseman.

*

http://www.youtube.com/v/ervaMPt4Ha0&autoplay=1

Amen to that - on this and every day.

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.

John McCrae