For all those who did not return, for those who returned wounded in body, for those who returned wounded or dead in spirit.
Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
(b. March 18, 1893 Oswestry, England – d. November 5, 1918 Sambre-Oise Canal, France)
I have written posts on four other Remembrance Days and as I read them once again and I am aware of the debt I owe to those who fought, died, were wounded in body or in spirit. Because of their sacrifice I am able to enjoy a life that is rich in more ways than I ever thought possible, in a country where the freedom to live my life the way I wish to is possible. We must never allow their sacrifice go unrecognized in any way.