With proud thanksgiving, a mother for
her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her
flesh they were, spirit of 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 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.