If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
I dreamt about you last night and woke with heavy heart
For you were no longer beside me and live only in my heart
The times we had come flooding back and the tears begin to flow
Knowing that I need you and thats when you had to go
Those sad and lonely times when you came and made me smile
How I wish I could touch your face again if only for a while
I miss you so much that the hurt just never ends
Truly you earned your place as this man best of friends
You gave me love unconditional and snuggled me when I was sad
And never did you desert me when all my other friends had
You may never have spoken a word but your eyes said everything
And now I won't see you again till I hear the angels sing
So rest in peace my dear old friend and remember how much love we had
And I'll picture your crooked smile to cheer me when I'm feeling sad
'Salute The Soldier' by A P Herbert
Hail, soldier, huddled in the rain,
Hail, soldier, squelching through the mud,
Hail, soldier, sick of dirt and pain,
The sight of death, the smell of blood.
New men, new weapons, bear the brunt;
New slogans gild the ancient game:
The infantry are still in front,
And mud and dust are much the same.
Hail, humble footman, poised to fly
Across the West, or any, Wall!
Proud, plodding, peerless P.B.I.-
The foulest, finest job of all.
March 26, 1944
*P.B.I. - Poor Bloody Infantry
If you are able,
save them a place inside of you
and save one backward glance when you are leaving
for the places they can no longer go.
Be not ashamed to say you loved them,
though you may or may not have always.
Take what they have left and what they have taught you
with their dying and keep it with your own.
And in that time when men decide and feel safe to call the war insane,
take one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind.
Major Michael Davis O'Donnell
1 January 1970
Dak To, Vietnam
KIA - 1978
As I was walking down the road one day
I saw a house on fire
There was a man shouting and screaming to the crowds below
For he was so afraid
Jumper you ****er jump
Jump into this here blanket we are holding
And you will be alright
He jumped
Hit the deck
Broke his ****ing neck
For there was no blanket
Derek and Clive.
A 1940 poem by Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943), American poet and writer.
Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, fine soldier,
In your dandy new uniform, all spick and span,
With your helmeted head and the gun on your shoulder,
Where are you coming from, gallant young man?
I come from the war that was yesterday's trouble,
I come with the bullet still blunt in my breast;
Though long was the battle and bitter the struggle,
Yet I fought with the bravest, I fought with the best.
Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, tall, soldier,
With ray-gun and sun-bomb and everything new,
And a face that might well have been carved from a boulder,
Where are you coming from, now tell me true!
My harness is novel, my uniform other
Than any gay uniform people have seen,
Yet I am your future and I am your brother
And I am the battle that has not yet been.
Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, gaunt soldier,
With weapons beyond any reach of my mind,
With weapons so deadly the world must grow older
And die in its tracks, if it does not turn kind?
Stand out of my way and be silent before me!
For none shall come after me, foeman or friend,
Since the seed of your seed called me out to employ me,
And that was the longest, and that was the end.
We do and I say yes, so let's revive it, and start at the top:
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
Read it, and then find Rufus Wainwright singing it.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings.
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute of God himself;
And earthly power doth then show like God's
When mercy seasons justice.
Had the learn off-by-heart many Shakespeare verses at school. Hated it at the time but understand most of it now. The 'quality of mercy' seems to have stuck!
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
written in 1922 by Robert Frost
The Dash - by Linda Ellis copyright 1996
I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone,
from the beginningÂ…to the end.
Not alllowed to print it in full according to the copyright blurb, so read the rest on her website, but very good.
The Dash Poem official website. Read the world-famous poem that has touched millions. Linda Ellis, Author's Site