Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1122

 LAURENCE BINYON

Nor is there any sorrow more Than hath ere now befallen these, Whose gaze is as an opening door On wild interminable seas.

O Youth, run fast upon thy feet, With full joy haste thee to be fill'd, And out of moments brief and sweet Thou shalt a power for ages build.

Does thy heart falter? Here, then, seek What strength is in thy kind 1 With pain Immortal bowM, these mortals weak Gentle and unsubdued remain.

p/<? For the Fallen

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.

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