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Remember...
Due to the time difference, now is an appropriate time to offer this for Rememberance Day. It's now known as Veteran's Day here in the U.S., which is a good thing... remembering all veterans. But, as a child I remember my parents buying and wearing the red paper poppies especially in rememberance of 1100 hours on 11/11/1918... this is quite touching. Thanks to our Canadian friends for producing this:
http://www.zippyvideos.com/8490560602166566/tk eng6mb/
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flander's 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.
Lest we forget...
http://www.zippyvideos.com/8490560602166566/tk eng6mb/
IN FLANDERS FIELDS
In Flander's 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.
Lest we forget...
Answers
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Best Answer
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Personally I'd go with Wilfred Owen:
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
"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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I 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.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
"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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines 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 flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under I 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.
'When you go home tell them of us and say for your tomorrow we gave our today.'
Always chokes me up.
A veteran spitfire pilot on the news said recently if those boys who gave their lives so freely could visit the towns and cities today, they would think that somewhere along the line they have been betrayed.
Always chokes me up.
A veteran spitfire pilot on the news said recently if those boys who gave their lives so freely could visit the towns and cities today, they would think that somewhere along the line they have been betrayed.
Hi Clanad, Nice touch. Got my poppy today.
Over here there is something going on regarding the funding of a war memorial for all the British Servicemen killed since the end of WW2. I was amazed to find out there was just over 16,000 in places like Falklands, Korea ect.
We never learn do we. Take care Al
Hi Jake, I think both poems reflect the sadness!
Over here there is something going on regarding the funding of a war memorial for all the British Servicemen killed since the end of WW2. I was amazed to find out there was just over 16,000 in places like Falklands, Korea ect.
We never learn do we. Take care Al
Hi Jake, I think both poems reflect the sadness!
Well you can remember those who fought - I shall be remembering those who died soldiers and civillians, "ours" and "theirs".
Ironic that your poet who exorts us to "take up his quarrel with the foe" and mine who tells us that dying with honour for your country is a "great lie" should have died in the same year in the same war.
I wonder if they'd have seen eye to eye?
Ironic that your poet who exorts us to "take up his quarrel with the foe" and mine who tells us that dying with honour for your country is a "great lie" should have died in the same year in the same war.
I wonder if they'd have seen eye to eye?
-- answer removed --
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