There is no bliss so new and dear,
It hath not them far-off allured.
All things that we have yet
They have already long endured.
Nor is there any sorrow more
Than hath ere now befallen these,
Whose gaze is as an opening
On wild interminable seas
O Youth, run fast upon thy feet,
With full joy haste thee to be filld,
And out of moments brief
Thou shalt a power for ages build.
Does thy heart falter? Here, then, seek
What strength is in thy kind! With pain
these mortals weak
Gentle and unsubdued remain.
WITH proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the
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.
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
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
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
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond Englands foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from
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
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
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