 Poetry: February 15, 2012 Issue [#4880] |
  Poetry
This week: Laurence Binyon Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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For the Fallen
by Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, 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.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Frederick Binyon and his wife, Mary Dockray welcomed their son Laurence Robert Binyon, into this world on August 10, 1869. The family lived in Lancaster, England. Binyon went to St Paul's School as a young lad. He then went on to study at Trinity College, Oxford. It was during his studies at Oxford he won the Newdigate Prize for one of his poems. After Binyon graduated he went to work at the British Museum. Binyon worked in the Oriental Department at the museum. In 1094 he married his wife, Cicely Margaret Powell. Cicely was a historian. The couple had three daughters together, Helen, Margaret and Nicolete. All three of his girls became artists.
Binyon was 45 years old when the war started. He was too old to enlist, but wanted to do his part. He went to the Western Front and worked for the Red Cross. He worked as an orderly at the hospital for a while then returned home to help with the wounded soldiers that returned from the battlefield. He wrote about his experiences in For Dauntless France, published in 1918. His poems, "Fetching the Wounded" and "The Distant Guns", were inspired by his hospital service.
After the war had ended he returned to working at the museum and wrote several books. His Collected Poems was published in 1931. His books included eight books on Oriental art. In 1933, Binyon was appointed Norton professor of poetry at Harvard. Laurence Robert Binyon died on March 10, 1943.
The Children Dancing
by Laurence Binyon
Away, sad thoughts, and teasing
Perplexities, away!
Let other blood go freezing,
We will be wise and gay.
For here is all heart-easing,
An ecstasy at play.
The children dancing, dancing,
Light upon happy feet,
Both eye and heart entrancing
Mingle, escape, and meet;
Come joyous-eyed and advancing
Or floatingly retreat.
Now slow, now swifter treading
Their paces timed and true,
An instant poised, then threading
A maze of printless clue,
Their motions smoothly wedding
To melody anew,
They sway in chime, and scatter
In looping circles; they
Are Music's airy matter,
And their feet move, the way
The raindrops shine and patter
On tossing flowers in May.
As if those flowers were singing
For joy of the clean air,
As if you saw them springing
To dance the breeze, so fair
The lissom bodies swinging,
So light the flung-back hair.
And through the mind enchanted
A happy river goes
By its own young carol haunted
And bringing where it flows
What all in the world has wanted
And who in this world knows?
The Rain Was Ending, And Light
by Laurence Binyon
The rain was ending, and light
Lifting the leaden skies.
It shone upon ceiling and floor
And dazzled a child's eyes.
Pale after fever, a captive
Apart from his schoolfellows,
He stood at the high room's window
With face to the pane pressed close,
And beheld an immense glory
Flooding with fire the drops
Spilled on miraculous leaves
Of the fresh green lime-tree tops.
Washed gravel glittered red
To a wall, and beyond it nine
Tall limes in the old inn yard
Rose over the tall inn sign.
And voices arose from beneath
Of boys from school set free,
Racing and chasing each other
With laughter and games and glee.
To the boy at the high room-window,
Gazing alone and apart,
There came a wish without reason,
A thought that shone through his heart.
I'll choose this moment and keep it,
He said to himself, for a vow,
To remember for ever and ever
As if it were always now.
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winners of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] are:
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The Prison Of Your Heart
The prison of your heart
Holds me captive, bound by chains
Emboldening my spirit more each day.
Paramount it is that I remain your slave.
Reaching heights that look down upon the sky,
I revel in the majesty that is you.
Sweet bliss is to know your passion,
Only to cherish the moment our senses peak, in lust.
Nourishing our union, molding it
Owning the only cell in the fortress of your heart,
Feasting on the beauty of its loneliness.
Yearning to stay your sole prisoner.
Onward the flame burns mightily
Unknowing the many seasons that have passed.
Recharging our commitment made,
Heroically together in our youth.
Embers of passion stoke the eternal fire.
A hostage I am, to you my abductor,
Requiring my honest devotion to remain in
The prison of your heart.
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Seasons come and seasons go
but the flame keeps burning on
to stimulate the senses
even after youth is gone.
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The prison walls surround me
and the loneliness is real
the years have left a hurting
that the body can't conceal.
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But the hearts desire is still
that one day bye and bye
other love will come along
to brighten up my sky.
Honorable mention:
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