I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate, Those that I guard I do not love; My county is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan's poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight drove to this tumult in the clouds; The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. William Butler Yeats
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.
floating down, through the clouds, memories come rushing up to meet me now, but in the space between the heavens and the corner of some foreign field, i had a dream, i had a dream, goodbye max, goodbye ma, after the service when you're walking slowly to the car, and the silver in her hair shines in the cold november air, you hear the tolling bell, and touch the silk in your lapel, and as the tear drops rise to meet the comfort of the band, you take her frail hand, and hold on to the dream,
a place to stay, enough to eat, somewhere old heroes shuffle safely down the street, where you can speak out loud, about your doubts and fears, and no-one ever dissappears, you'll never hear their standard issue kicking in your door, you can relax on both sides of the tracks, and maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control, and everyone has recourse to the law, and no-one kills the children anymore, no-one kills the children anymore,
night after night, going round and round my brain, his dream is driving me insane, in the corner of some foreign field, the gunner sleeps tonight, whats done is done, we cannot write off his final scene, take heed of his dream, take heed. R.Waters, 1983
...What General Weygand called the Battle of France is over. I expect that the Battle of Britain is about to begin. Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British life, and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this Island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, "This was their finest hour."
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