For the Fallen Poem by Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943), published in The Times newspaper on 21 September 1914. 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.
Armistice Day please log in to view this image 2021 marks 100 years since the nation’s collective Remembrance traditions were first brought together. The poppy, two-minute silence, Armistice Day, the service for the Unknown Warrior, and the march-past at the Cenotaph are traditions that millions participate in every year. To this day we mark Armistice Day around the United Kingdom with a Two Minute Silence at 11am on the 11th day of the 11th month.
Wait for me and I'll come back! Wait with all your might! Wait when dreary yellow rains Tell you nothing's right; Wait when snow is falling fast; Wait when summer's hot; When no one waits for other men And all the past's forgot! Wait when those that wait with you Are bored and tired and glum, And when it seems, from far away, No letters ever come! Wait for me and I'll come back! Wait in patience yet When they tell you off by heart That you should forget; And when my mother and my son Give up on me at last And friends sit sadly round the fire And talk about the past And drink a bitter glass of wine In memory of me – Wait! No rush to drink with them! Tell them to wait and see! Wait for me and I'll come back, Escaping every fate! ‘Just a lot of luck!’ they'll say, Those that didn't wait. They will never understand How, amidst the strife, By your waiting for me, dear, You had saved my life! Only you and I will know How you got me through! Simply – you knew how to wait! No one else but you!
Don't wish to be controversial but how better it would have been if they were the proper colour, red.
