Memorial Day

I just want to remind everyone what this holiday weekend means. Please remember the fallen.

Dirge for Two Veterans Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, first published in the 1867 edition)          1    The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finish’d Sabbath, On the pavement here—and there beyond, it is looking,    Down a new-made double grave.          2    Lo! the moon ascending! Up from the east, the silvery round moon; Beautiful over the house tops, ghastly phantom moon;    Immense and silent moon.          3    I see a sad procession, And I hear the sound of coming full-key’d bugles; All the channels of the city streets they’re flooding,    As with voices and with tears.          4    I hear the great drums pounding, And the small drums steady whirring; And every blow of the great convulsive drums,    Strikes me through and through.          5    For the son is brought with the father; In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell; Two veterans, son and father, dropt together,    And the double grave awaits them.          6    Now nearer blow the bugles, And the drums strike more convulsive; And the day-light o’er the pavement quite has faded,    And the strong dead-march enwraps me.          7    In the eastern sky up-buoying, The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumin’d; (’Tis some mother’s large, transparent face,    In heaven brighter growing.)          8    O strong dead-march, you please me! O moon immense, with your silvery face you soothe me! O my soldiers twain! O my veterans, passing to burial!    What I have I also give you.          9    The moon gives you light, And the bugles and the drums give you music; And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans,    My heart gives you love.
In Flanders Fields John McCrae (1915) 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.

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