They Shall Grow Not Old…

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.”


The far horizon...

The far horizon…

There's An Old Stone Church In Howfen Town..

There’s An Old Stone Church In Howfen Town..

No lonely, boundless shifting sands for them the eye will see, no mighty granite edifice sinking slowly in a sandy sea. An English garden, an old stone church and quiet solitude, is where we come to spend some time in silent gratitude.

And standing there, the air so still, the ancient oaks around, beyond the wall across the brook, the rolling hills abound. A cuckoo calls, the swallows flit, the church bell chimes to seven, I close my eyes in silent prayer, a quiet requiem …

… and that old church, it stands there still, it’s there for all to see, and from afar o’er Texas plains that garden beckons me…

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.”

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.

“For the Fallen” by Laurence Binyon

[The buglers of The United States Army Band “Pershing’s Own” perform over 5000 missions a year in Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, VA.Featured here are SSG Jesse Tubb (summer) and SSG Drew Fremder (winter)]

H/T Gerard Venderleun and his American Digest …