Age Shall Not Weary Them …

For the Fallen by Laurence Binyon

 

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spririt 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.

There went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

There 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 behyond 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 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 darkenss,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

 

Fields of Mud, Seeds of Hope

Composed using battlefield mud from Flanders and earth taken from a Great War military camp in the U.K the work starts thoroughly soaked. As the wet mud dries and cracks the five battle weary silhouettes gradually appear, trudging home their backs to the past and facing the future.

Deep within the mud millions of ungerminated poppy seeds lay dormant.

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