Browse short memorial day never forget poems, poems about sacrifice for freedom, poppy poems for remembrance day, veterans day poems, decoration day poem, the dead (poem), memorial day acrostic poems and quotes.
POEMS FOR MEMORIAL DAY
How Sleep the Brave
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair
To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!
by William Collins
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May Has Decked the World
May has decked the world, that we
May bring the brave on land or sea
Earth’s glory on Memorial Day,
The lovely meadow gifts of May.
Brave dead, who saved our country, we
Come with flowers; O living brave, on land or sea,
We wave the bright Red, White and Blue
And bring May meadow gifts to you!
by Annette Wynne
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Memorial Day
The Day of Memories!—Remembering what?
The cannon’s roar, the hissing of the shot?
The weary hospital, the prison pen?
The widow’s tears, the groans of stalwart men?
The bitterness of fratricidal strife?
The pangs of death, the sharper pangs of life?
Nay, let us quite forget the whole of these
Upon our sacred Day of Memories.
The Day of Memories!—Remembering what?
The honored dust in every hallowed spot;
The honored names of all our heroes dead;
The glorious land for which they fought and bled;
Our nation’s hopes; the kindly, common good;
The universal bond of brotherhood;
These we remember gladly, all of these,
Upon our sacred Day of Memories.
by Amos Russel Wells
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May Night
Blue are the twilight heavens above the hill,
A yellow half-moon ‘s high within the blue,
And rosy May-night clouds are soft and still,
And all the world beside is shut from view.
The plum-trees, whitening buds and greening shoots,
Close in the dusky cottage; and beyond
The wood-thrush in the hazel-thicket flutes,
And frogs are croaking in the unseen pond.
It is the old, the odorous privacy
That once had been both peace and gentle song,
But now how such an evening troubles me
After earth’s five most awful years of wrong…
Whilst inland, from the plains, the crags, the sea,
With all the stars the dead men’s armies throng.
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The Unknown Dead
Above their rest there is no sound of weeping,
Only the voice of song-birds thrills the air;
Unknown their graves, yet they are in God’s keeping,
There are none “missing” from His tender care.
He knows each hallowed mound, and at His pleasure
Marshalls the sentinels of earth and sky;
O’er their repose kind Nature heaps her treasure,
Farmed by soft winds which ’round them gently sigh.
Bravely they laid their all upon the altar,
Counting as naught the sacrifice and pain,
Theirs but to do and die without a falter—
Ours to enjoy the victory and the gain.
They are not lost; that only which was mortal
Lies ‘neath the turf o’erarched by Southern skies;
Deathless they wait beyond the heavenly portal,
In that fair land where valor never dies.
In the great heart of coming generations
Their fame shall live, their glory never cease;
Even when comes to all earth’s troubled nations
God’s perfect gift of universal peace.
by Elizabeth Robbins Berry
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Memorial Day
Is it enough to think to-day
Of all our brave, then put away
The thought until a year has sped?
Is this full honor for our dead?
Is it enough to sing a song
And deck a grave; and all year long
Forget the brave who died that we
Might keep our great land proud and free?
Full service needs a greater toll—
That we who live give heart and soul
To keep the land they died to save,
And be ourselves, in turn, the brave!
by Annette Wynne
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For Thee They Died
For thee their pilgrim swords were tried,
Thy flaming word was in their scrips,
They battled, they endured, they died
To make a new Apocalypse.
Master and Maker, God of Right,
The soldier dead are at thy gate,
Who kept the spears of honor bright
And freedom’s house inviolate.
by John Drinkwater
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A Dead Warrior
Here sown to dust lies one that drave
The furrow through his heart;
Now, of the fields he died to save
His own dust forms a part.
Where went the tramp of martial feet,
The blare of trumpets loud,
Comes silence with her winding sheet,
And shadow with her shroud.
His mind no longer counsel takes,
No sword his hand need draw,
Across whose borders peace now makes
Inviolable law.
So, with distraction round him stilled,
Now let him be content!
And time from age to age shall build
His standing monument.
Not here, where strife, and greed, and lust
Grind up the bones of men;
But in that safe and secret dust
Which shall not rise again.
by Laurence Housman
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A Nameless Grave
“A Soldier of the Union mustered out,”
Is the inscription on an unknown grave
At Newport News, beside the salt-sea wave,
Nameless and dateless; sentinel or scout
Shot down in skirmish, or disastrous rout
Of battle, when the loud artillery drave
Its iron wedges through the ranks of brave
And doomed battalions, storming the redoubt.
Thou unknown hero sleeping by the sea
In thy forgotten grave! with secret shame
I feel my pulses beat, my forehead burn,
When I remember thou hast given for me
All that thou hadst, thy life, thy very name,
And I can give thee nothing in return.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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In Flanders Fields
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 Ernest Clegg
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The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever 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.
by Rupert Brooke
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Decoration Day
Sleep, comrades, sleep and rest
On this Field of the Grounded Arms,
Where foes no more molest,
Nor sentry’s shot alarms!
Ye have slept on the ground before,
And started to your feet
At the cannon’s sudden roar,
Or the drum’s redoubling beat.
But in this camp of Death
No sound your slumber breaks;
Here is no fevered breath,
No wound that bleeds and aches.
All is repose and peace,
Untrampled lies the sod;
The shouts of battle cease,
It is the Truce of God!
Rest, comrades, rest and sleep!
The thoughts of men shall be
As sentinels to keep
Your rest from danger free.
Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Memorial Day
Our Nation is reverently thinking today
Of the loved ones sleeping beneath the cold clay;
Of the sacrifice made, and the brave deeds done,
To preserve our Union as a glorious one.
We ne’er will be able to pay the great cost
Of the noble, the true, and the brave that we’ve lost;
But over their graves, with tears like the dew,
We’ll lay our sweet flowers of red, white and blue.
Our Nation is paying its tribute today
Upon the green mounds where its loyal men lay;
While statesman, and orator, fondly repeat
The story of those who knew no defeat.
They tell of the Union united again,
By the triumph of those who died not in vain;
Of the forty-four states all loyal and free,
Of the peace, and the freedom, from sea to sea.
Our Nation is thinking, rejoicing, to day,
While comrades are kneeling their tribute to pay;
And hearts once sorrowing, rejoice now to see
The “Star Spangled Banner,” the flag of the free.
For out of their loyalty and brave deeds done,
Out of their battles and their victories won,
Came freedom and peace, and in liberty’s name
Our banner floats freely, with glory and fame.
Our Nation is reverently thinking today
Of the men now living who’ll soon pass away;
Like the grass of the field and the flowers they spread
O’er the graves of their comrades, immortal, dead,
Tall monuments stand to their memory dear,
But they crumble and fall, like the leaf when sere;
Our Nation united, forever will stand,
To those who preserved it, a monument grand.
Wherever we gather today ‘neath “The Stars,”
Let’s honor the living now wearing the scars
Which they brought from the fields of battle and strife,
While protecting “Our Flag,” and our Nation’s life.
Let the flowers bear tribute in their simple way.
And each one remember Memorial Day;
Remember the dead, and the living, though few,
Who fought ‘neath “The Stars,” and the red, white and blue.
by Frederick W. Emerson
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The Unknown
I do not understand…
They bring so many, many flowers to me—
Rainbows of roses, wreaths from every land;
And hosts of solemn strangers come to see
My tomb here on these quiet, wooded heights.
My tomb here seems to be
One of the sights.
The low-voiced men, who speak
Of me quite fondly, call me The Unknown:
But now and then at dusk, Madonna-meek,
Bent, mournful mothers come to me alone
And whisper down—the flowers and grasses through—
Such names as “Jim” and “John”…
I wish I knew.
And once my sweetheart came.
She did not—nay, of course she could not—know,
But thought of me, and crooned to me the name
She called me by—how many years ago?
A very precious name. Her eyes were wet,
Yet glowing, flaming so…
She won’t forget!
by E.O. Laughlin
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All This Is Ended
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvelously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colors of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
by Rupert Brooke
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Soldier, Rest
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle’s enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sounds shall reach thine ear,
Armor’s clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near;
Guards nor warders challenge here;
Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.
by Sir Walter Scott
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The Fallen
Those we have loved the dearest,
The bravest and the best,
Are summoned from the battle
To their eternal rest;
There they endure the silence,
Here we endure the pain—
He that bestows the Valor
Valor resumes again.
O, Master of all Being,
Donor of Day and Night,
Of Passion and of Beauty,
Of Sorrow and Delight,
Thou gav’st them the full treasure
Of that heroic blend—
The Pride, the Faith, the Courage,
That holdeth to the end.
Thou gavest us the Knowledge
Wherein their memories stir—
Master of Life, we thank Thee
That they were what they were.
by Duncan Campbell Scott
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The Old Soldier
Lest the young soldiers be strange in heaven,
God bids the old soldier they all adored
Come to Him and wait for them, clean, new-shriven,
A happy doorkeeper in the House of the Lord.
Lest it abash them, the strange new splendor,
Lest they affright them, the new robes clean;
Here’s an old face, now, long-tried and tender,
A word and a hand-clasp as they troop in.
“My boys!” He greets them: and heaven is homely,
He their great captain in days gone o’er;
Dear is the friend’s face, honest and comely,
Waiting to welcome them by the strange door.
by Katherine Tynan
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A Monument for the Soldiers
A monument for the Soldiers!
And what will ye build it of?
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze,
Outlasting the Soldiers’ love?
Can ye glorify it with legends
As grand as their blood hath writ
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine
To the outermost verge of it?
And the answer came: We would build it
Out of our hopes made sure,
And out of our purest prayers and tears,
And out of our faith secure:
We would build it out of the great white truths
Their death hath sanctified,
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms,
And their faces ere they died.
And what heroic figures
Can the sculptor carve in stone?
Can the marble breast be made to bleed,
And the marble lips to moan?
Can the marble brow be fevered?
And the marble eyes be graved
To look their last, as the flag floats past,
On the country they have saved?
And the answer came: The figures
Shall all be fair and brave,
And, as befitting, as pure and white
As the stars above their grave!
The marble lips, and breast and brow
Whereon the laurel lies,
Bequeath us right to guard the flight
Of the old flag in the skies!
A monument for the Soldiers!
Built of a people’s love,
And blazoned and decked and panoplied
With the hearts ye build it of!
And see that ye build it stately,
In pillar and niche and gate,
And high in pose as the souls of those
It would commemorate!
by James Whitcomb Riley
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The Portrait of a Warrior
His brow is seamed with line and scar;
His cheek is red and dark as wine;
The fires as of a Northern star
Beneath his cap of sable shine.
His right hand, bared of leathern glove,
Hangs open like an iron gin,
You stoop to see his pulses move,
To hear the blood sweep out and in.
He looks some king, so solitary
In earnest thought he seems to stand,
As if across a lonely sea
He gazed impatient of the land.
Out of the noisy centuries
The foolish and the fearful fade;
Yet burn unquenched these warrior eyes,
Time hath not dimmed, nor death dismayed.
by Walter De la Mare
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The Young Dead
Ah, how I pity the young dead who gave
All that they were, and might become, that we
With tired eyes should watch this perfect sea
Re-weave its patterning of silver wave
Round scented cliffs of arbutus and bay.
No more shall any rose along the way,
The myrtled way that wanders to the shore,
Nor jonquil-twinkling meadow any more,
Nor the warm lavender that takes the spray,
Smell only of sea-salt and the sun.
But, through recurring seasons, every one
Shall speak to us with lips the darkness closes,
Shall look at us with eyes that missed the roses,
Clutch us with hands whose work was just begun,
Laid idle now beneath the earth we tread—
And always we shall walk with the young dead.—
Ah, how I pity the young dead, whose eyes
Strain through the sod to see these perfect skies,
Who feel the new wheat springing in their stead,
And the lark singing for them overhead!
by Edith Wharton
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