For the Fallen – We Will Remember Them

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

This is the refrain from Laurence Binyon (1869-1943) For The Fallen. Below is the poem in full:

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 contemn.
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.

The Royal British Legion

The Royal British Legion is the national custodian of Remembrance, a role which ensures that those who gave their lives for peace and freedom are remembered.

Remembrance is not just about those who fought in the two World Wars of the last century, but also about those involved in the many other conflicts worldwide since 1945 and those still fighting for peace and freedom now. It is also about learning from the past and resolving to make the world a better place to live in the future.

Related blog:

Poem on Intelligence Design

From North Texas Sceptics

There are some guest bloggers covering on PZ’s Blog http://scienceblogs.com/pharyngula/ and one of them mentions this poem which I thought I would share with you:

I think that I shall never see
A theory dumber than ID:
It says that God can make a tree,
A beaver or a honeybee-
That God can simply get a whim
To make the small E. coli swim.
He waves His hand through Heaven’s air
And lo! Flagella everywhere!
But sometimes even God falls down
And makes a poor, pathetic clown:
Yes, poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make Behe.

Happy Birthday Robert Burns!

Had a good birthday yesterday – went round Leicester trying out a new Vegetarian South Indian Restaurant and a real ale pub crawl. Real ale is:

CAMRA’s (Campaign to Save Real Ale) official definition of Real Ale is, “beer brewed from traditional ingredients, matured by secondary fermentation in the container from which it is dispensed, and served without the use of extraneous carbon dioxide.” It’s an awkward definition that, like Germany’s Reinheitsgebot, can be quite restrictive. However, the term “traditional ingredients” is designed, like the Reinheitsgebot, to prevent artificial preservatives or cheap adjuncts or chemicals from being used in the making or storing of the beer.

Today however belongs to Robert Burns.  This includes the ritual of the Haggis – one that has been done for 200 years to celebrate the Scottish bard (by the way if it seems strange an Englishman admiring Burns, well I admire Adam Smith too and celebrate the Scottish Enlightenment as one that benefited us all). The Haggis is not a creature that is hunted, despite what children’s books may claim or irresponsible tour operators say to gullible tourists.

What was peasant food by means of survival is elevated to the celebration of the life and works of Burns. There is no getting around the fact that Haggis is usually a sheep’s heart, liver and lungs with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices and salt mixed with stock. All traditionally boiled in the animal’s stomach for a few hours.

 Thankfully the veggie alternative is available to accompany the neeps (turnip) and tatties (potatoes).

Hope that you enjoy Burns Night however you do. With that I leave you with one of the poems that is a show of both his talents and social commentary Man Was Made to Mourn (the link gives a modern english verion too).

1.
When chill November’s surly blast
Made fields and forest bare,
One ev’ning, as I wand’red forth
Along the banks of Ayr,
I spied a man, whose aged step
Seem’d weary, worn with care,
His face was furrow’d o’er with years,
And hoary was his hair.
2.
‘Young stranger, whither wand’rest thou?’
Began the rev’rend Sage,
‘Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,
Or youthful pleasure’s rage?
Or haply, prest with cares and woes,
Too soon thou hast began
To wander forth, with me to mourn
The miseries of Man.
3.
The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Out-spreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labour to support
A haughty lordling’s pride:
I’ve seen yon weary winter-sun
Twice forty times return;
And ev’ry time has added proofs,
That man was made to mourn.
4.
‘O Man! while in thy early years,
How prodigal of time!
Mis-spending all thy precious hours,
Thy glorious, youthful prime!
Alternate follies take the sway,
Licentious passions burn:
Which tenfold force gives Nature’s law,
That Man was made to mourn.
5.
Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood’s active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right:
But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;
Then Age and Want – O ill match’d pair! –
Shew Man was made to mourn.
6.
‘A few seem favourites of Fate,
In Pleasure’s lap carest;
Yet think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest:
But oh! what crowds in ev’ry land,
All wretched and forlorn,
Thro’ weary life this lesson learn,
That Man was made to mourn.
7.
‘Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And Man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,–
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!
8.
‘See yonder poor, o’erlabour’d wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, tho’ a weeping wife
And helpless offspring mourn.
9.
‘If I’m design’d yon lordling’s slave–
By Nature’s law design’d–
Why was an independent wish
E’er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty, or scorn?
Or why has Man the will and pow’r
To make his fellow mourn?
10.
‘Yet let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of human-kind
Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man,
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!
11.
‘O Death! the poor man’s dearest friend,
The kindest and the best!
Welcome the hour my aged limbs
Are laid with thee at rest!
The great, the wealthy fear thy blow,
From pomp and pleasure torn,
But, oh! a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!’

In lightment

Out of the shadows

Behold it’s bright

Soar like Icarus

Into the light

 

I try to explain

I may as well speak Greek

Because of our brain

I am asking too much

 

Life is short like a wick

Soon it burns out

Live soon live quick

Ignore Daedalus’ shout

by John Sargeant