For the Fallen (Laurence Binyon)

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.

Robert Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

Gethsemane 1914-18 (Kipling)

The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass – we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass – it didn’t pass
It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Solitude (Harry Read)

I’m planning to start posting weekly Sunday devotionals now that I’m settling into retirement, but for now I’m sharing a poem by Salvation Army Officer Harry Read. He’s a remarkable Christian gentleman who I’ve already posted about here.

There is a silence wherein God is found,
A quietness which is a source of grace,
A love-filled solitude that has no bound
Accessible from any hour and place.

It is that centre wherein God is known
And love, sublimest love holds sway.
We enter as we move towards his throne,
We share its myst’ry as we bow to pray.

God folds us to himself with tenderness,
He longs that of himself we should be part,
Our hopes he fills with yearning’s gentle stress
That we might share the feelings of his heart.

Within that most creative solitude,
Our deepest, inward being is renewed.

…and have put on the new self, which is being renewed in knowledge in the image of its Creator. Colossians 3:10

I envy not in any moods (Tennyson)

In Memoriam A. H. H. 16. I Envy Not In Any Moods

I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Only love (Ian McEwan)

Only love and then oblivion. Love was all they had to set against their murderers. Ian McEwan.

Tuesday 11 September 2001 (or 9/11 as it has become known) is a day permanently etched into all of our memories, and much has been written about the terrorist attacks on that day.

I’m not going to attempt to add my thoughts on this anniversary, but simply to point you to one of the best pieces written about it then or since.

This article by Ian McEwan was published in The Guardian on Saturday 15 September 2001.

To My Valentine (Ogden Nash)

Here’s an unconventional love poem for my wife Naomi, written in 1941 at the height of the Second World War.

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That’s how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than a gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That’s how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That’s how you’re loved by me.

Ogden Nash (1902-1971)