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A child in nature, as a child in years, If on past hours she turn remembering eyes, She but beholds sweet joys or gentle tears, Flower hiding flower in her pure memories.…
Robert Laurence Binyon (10 August 1869 at Lancaster – 10 March 1943 at Reading, Berkshire) was an English poet, dramatist, and art scholar. His most famous work, For the Fallen, is well known for being used in Remembrance Sunday services. Moved by the opening of the Great War and the already high number of casualties of the British Expeditionary Force, in 1914 Laurence Binyon wrote his For the Fallen, with its Ode of Remembrance, as he was visiting the cliffs of northern Cornwall (where a plaque commemorates it nowadays.) The piece was published by The Times newspaper in September, when public feeling was affected by the recent Battle of Marne. Today Binyon is most famous for For the Fallen, often recited at Remembrance Sunday services in the UK, and an integral part of Anzac Day services in Australia and New Zealand, and November 11 Remembrance Day services in Canada. The third and fourth verses of the poem (although often just the fourth)have so been claimed as a tribute to all casualties of war, regardless of nation. They went with songs to the battle, they were young. Straight of limb, true of eyes, 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 condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them. In 1915, despite being too old to enlist in the First World War, Laurence Binyon volunteered at a British hospital for French soldiers, Hopital Temporaire d'Arc-en-Barrois, Haute-Marne, France, working briefly as a hospital orderly. He returned in the summer of 1916 and took care of soldiers taken in from the Verdun battlefield. He wrote about his experiences in For Dauntless France (1918) and his poems, "Fetching the Wounded" and "The Distant Guns", were inspired by his hospital service in Arc-en-Barrois.)
Robert Laurence Binyon şiirleri
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Why hurt so hard by little pricks, By chasing cares so clouded over, Heart of mine? Holding what no storm can unfix…
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Pure--throated Flower, Smelling of Spring, Shaped beyond art's Imagining;…
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A day that is boundless as youth And gay with delight to be born, Where the waves flash and glide over sands In their pure image rippled and worn;…
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The Man. O tyrannous Angel, dreadful God, Who taught thee thus to wield thy rod? So jealous of a happy heart,…
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Behold an endless evening over land That lapped in vast vales rises up afar Into the frozen mountains; evening brimmed With silence, so miraculously clear…
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Who are these that meet At random in the street? Adversaries! Yet they Make no sign nor stay.…
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In the shadow of a broken house, Down a deserted street, Propt walls, cold hearths, and phantom stairs, And the silence of dead feet —…
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Ah, now this happy month is gone, Not now, my heart, complain, Nor rail at Time because so soon He takes his own again.…
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O hush, sweet birds, that linger in lonely song! Hold in your evening fragrance, wet May--bloom! But drooping branches and leaves that greenly throng, Darken and cover me over in t…
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Who are these that come from the ends of the oceans, Coming as the swallows come out of the South In the glory of Spring? They are come among us With purpose in the eyes, with a sm…
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I ``O King Amasis, hail! News from thy friend, the King Polycrates! My oars have never rested on the seas…
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Whatever seemed to reign within my breast, Ere now, or reigned in the true sovereign's room, Love has dethroned, strong Love has dispossessed, Like a glad master come to his own ho…
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Over fast--closed baby eyes In the garden's golden air Blossom--white the butterflies Hover, hurry, part and pair,…
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Breezes strongly rushing, when the North--West stirs, Prophesying Summer to the shaken firs; Blowing brows of forest, where soft airs are free, Crowned with heavenly glimpses of th…
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