With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, England mourns for her dead across the sea.

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.

The little street

Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.

We are living in a time of trouble and bewilderment, in a time when none of us can foresee or foretell the future.

They shall not grow 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.

Two children, all alone and no one by,

Holding their tattered frocks, thro'an airy maze

Of motion lightly threaded with nimble feet

Dance sedately; face to face they gaze,

Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.