Memorial Day Poetry

 In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
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 amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset 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.

By Moina Michael
We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.

Memorial Day

 - Eula Gladys Lincoln

 

In distant field of sunny France
Where strangers come and go,
Amid the farms of Flanders, where
The fragrant breezes blow,
Our solder-dead in quiet sleep
'Neath crosses row on row.

Here shrapnel shells once shrieked and burst
And took their toll of death;
The very wind, itself a foe,
Bore poison on its breath.

Above their graves the birds now sing
As round that home of yore,
When, carefree boys, they romped and played;
Those childhood days soon o'er,
The boys to brave and strong men grown,
They romped and played no more.

They put aside their childish toys,
A man's work each must do,
And when their country called for them,
To her they answered true.

"We must protect our native land:
She shall not suffer wrong
For she has reared and nurtured us,
We're men and we are strong.
We'll bid good-bye to those we love;
It will not be for long."

With aching hearts and tear-dimmed eyes
We watched them go away.
Some have returned but many sleep
In foreign lands today.

Where English roses bloom and fade,
In France where lilies grow,
Among the fields of Flanders, where
The scarlet poppies blow,
Our soldier-dead are not forgot
Though strangers come and go.

 

Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

- Mary Frye (1932)

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow;
I am the softly falling snow.

I am the gentle showers of rain;
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush;
I am in the graceful rush.

Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.

I am the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.

 

TAPS

- Major General Daniel Butterfield

Day is done...
Gone the sun
From the lake...
From the hills...
From the sky.
All is well...
Safely rest
God is nigh.

Fading light....
Dims the sight
And a star....
Gems the sky....
Gleaming bright
From afar....
Drawing nigh
Falls the night.