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States has been at war in one form or another. Hundreds of thousands of
our fellow citizens have served with honor despite the hardships, and
thousands have made the ultimate sacrifice. All around us are those who
have served who carry scars in the heart as well as the body. No
matter what our individual political views, let us honor all who have
served and pray for the day when they will have to sacrifice no more.
I don't know of a better poem for Memorial Day than Steven Spender's "I Think Continually of Those"; it's been posted
before so I added some music that I hope goes well with it. The music
is acoustic guitar , "The Gift of Life" by Bruce BecVar .
before so I added some music that I hope goes well with it. The music
is acoustic guitar , "The Gift of Life" by Bruce BecVar .
If so inclined:
(photograph from one cemetery near Omaha Beach)
I Think Continually of Those
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the spirit clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the spirit clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious is never to forget
The delight of the blood drawn from ancient springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth;
Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light,
Nor its grave evening demand for love;
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.
The delight of the blood drawn from ancient springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth;
Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light,
Nor its grave evening demand for love;
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass,
And by the streamers of white cloud,
And whispers of wind in the listening sky;
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass,
And by the streamers of white cloud,
And whispers of wind in the listening sky;
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
~ Stephen Spender ~
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