NationStates Jolt Archive

"They shall not grow old
As we that are left grow old
Age shall not weary them
Nor the years condem.
At the going down of the sun
And in the morning
We will remember them."



been a long time since i've studied any war poetry like wilfred owen, siegfried sassoon, et al. anybody got any clues as to where thats from cos i feel like reading some more again sometime soon (after work) but i kinda need somewhere to start.

thanks :)

A geezer called Laurence Binyon wrote it, if I recall correctly. It's called For The Fallen. I think the verse you cite is the third or fourth; there are seven (I think) in total. It's very sad, but it is a lovely poem.

A geezer called Laurence Binyon wrote it, if I recall correctly. It's called For The Fallen. I think the verse you cite is the third or fourth; there are seven (I think) in total. It's very sad, but it is a lovely poem.

Yes, here's the whole poem (just googled (http://www.poemhunter.com/p/m/poem.asp?poet=7249&poem=544182) it, though, so no idea which book/anthology it's from)



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 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

Lawrence Binyon, one of Lancaster's only cultural exports.

¬_¬

I think it is a prayer for the Unknowen Soldier. It is often uttered on Rememberance Day in the UK.

aha thank you! :fluffle:

edit: read it. that is a good poem :(

It's recited at every Anzac Day.

This is prob the best site for you:
http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

Here's one of my favourites:
When I'm Killed

When I'm killed, don't think of me
Buried there in Cambrin Wood,
Nor as in Zion think of me
With the Intolerable Good.
And there's one thing that I know well,
I'm damned if I'll be damned to Hell!

So when I'm killed, don't wait for me,
Walking the dim corridor;
In Heaven or Hell, don't wait for me,
Or you must wait for evermore.
You'll find me buried, living-dead
In these verses that you've read.

So when I'm killed, don't mourn for me,
Shot, poor lad, so bold and young,
Killed and gone - don't mourn for me.
On your lips my life is hung:
O friends and lovers, you can save
Your playfellow from the grave.

Robert Graves

Try to get hold of his war (WWI) diary 'Goodbye to all that'. Well worth reading

This is prob the best site for you:
http://website.lineone.net/~nusquam/wpbywar.htm

fantastic! just what i've been looking for :) (or would have been looking for had i started looking...)
thanks! :fluffle: (more fluffles :P)

fantastic! thanks :fluffle: (more fluffles :P)
Aww....just what I needed! I haven't had a fluffle for a long time.
Have one urself:
:fluffle:

Aww....just what I needed! I haven't had a fluffle for a long time.
Have one urself:
:fluffle:
hooray! :D
:fluffle: :fluffle: :fluffle: (three whole fluffles cos you seem to need em ;))

The Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


2.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.


3.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.


4.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.


5.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.


6.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.



oddly enough not on that site... hmm

I've been sorting old uni papers just now, and, quite fittingly, considering this thread, have come across this Wilfred Owen poem of which I once used the second verse in a paper on soldiers' berserk rage. Rather haunting.



Apologia pro Poemate Meo


I, too, saw God through mud, -
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there -
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

I, too, have dropped off Fear -
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,
And sailed my spirit surging light and clear
Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;

And witnessed exultation -
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,
Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

I have made fellowships -
Untold of happy lovers in old song.
For love is not the binding of fair lips
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,

By Joy, whose ribbon slips, -
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;
Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

The name given to that particular passage is that of "The Act of Rememberance".

As for poems, one of the most compelling ones, yet disturbing ones is:
Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

That poem (Dulce Et Decorum Est) is so sad. We had to study it in Grade 12. And that original section of poem, the Act of Rememberance, is displayed inside every RSL club in Australia, and read out every night in said RSL clubs, I believe.

And I'm wondering if anyone can get a hold of a copy of a poem by Bruce Dawe called 'Homecoming'. Its an excellent poem, dealing with the Vietnam war. I've done a google search and come up with nil.