Memorial Day
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In Flanders Fields.
In Flanders field 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 with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
— Major John McCrae
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America’s Answer.
Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead.
The fight that ye so bravely led
We’ve taken up. And we will keep
True faith with you who lie asleep
In Flanders fields.
Fear not that ye have died for naught.
The torch ye threw to us we caught.
Ten million hands will hold it high,
And Freedom’s light shall never die!
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders fields.
— R.W. Lilliard.
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With all the “Memorial Day Sales” and that summer-is-here-now feeling, it’s easy to forget what this holiday is actually about. So, buy a poppy, and wear it. To remind yourself, and others, that freedom has a price; Memorial Day is the day we honor those who paid that price. [This post is updated from last year's Memorial Day post.]
3 Comments
Thanks for the reminder. I think we all need to stop and remember what freedom costs.
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.
– Wilfred Owen
I don’t believe any were saying ” Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.” What we are saying is that we should not forget those who have died. We are not glorifying it.
If you want anti-war poetry, try “And The Band Played Waltzing Matilda”. I maintain that is the best anti-war song ever written.