I was browsing a history site on the First World War and I came across these poems. These can apply to any of the warring nations, as all of them left a generation of good decent men on the fields of France and we can all empathise with the poems. I hope people will understand why they are being posted, it’s not political, just to remember these brave, brave men who endured something more hellish than anything we could ever imagine.

In Flanders Fields
In Flanders fields 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 among the guns below. We are The Dead. Short days ago
we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset's 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 faith with us who die
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow, in Flanders fields.


The Unknown Soldier
I crouched in a shallow trench on that hell of exposed beaches... steeply rising foothills bare of cover... a landscape pockmarked with war’s inevitable litter... piles of stores... equipment... ammunition... and the weird contortions of death sculptured in Australian flesh... I saw the going down of the sun on that first ANZAC Day... the chaotic maelstrom of Australia’s blooding.
I fought in the frozen mud of the Somme... in a blazing destroyer exploding on the North Sea... I fought on the perimeter at Tobruk... crashed in the flaming wreckage of a fighter in New Guinea... lived with the damned in the place cursed with the name Changi.
I was your mate... the kid across the street... the med student at graduation... the mechanic in the corner garage... the baker who brought you bread... the gardener who cut your lawn... the clerk who sent your phone bill.
I was an Army private... a Naval commander... an Air Force bombardier. No man knows me... no name marks my tomb, for I am every Australian serviceman... I am the Unknown Soldier.
I died for a cause I held just in the service of my land... that you and yours may say
in freedom... I am proud to be an Australian.


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 a 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 uncountered:
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 at 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.

-- Laurence Binyon

Those are great :thumb: Thanks for sharing those!

*goosebumps*

Those were great :thumb:

Very moving! Great stuff as always, Ger! :thumb:

"In Flanders Fields" is one of my favorite poems! Thanks for bringing that memory back. :)

*Pagan is speechless.....*

Those were pretty good.

Ger... you never cease to amaze me with your AWESOME posts. :thumb: THANK YOU!! :yesnod:

Thanks Guys for the responses. They are very powerful images arent they? But although they were written from the British and Australian perspective, they can be applied to all nations who have soldiers in the line of fire.

Here is another poem that is very moving and its by a poet called Siegfried Sasoon

It's Called survivors:

No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they're 'longing to go out again,' —
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride...
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

October, 1917.