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The Gift Outright Robert Frost The land was ours before we were the land's. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England's, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become. | top of page | In Flanders Fields Lt. Col. John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. 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. | top of page | I Have a Rendezvous With Death Alan Seeger I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade, And apple-blossoms fill the air- I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath-- It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. | top of page | It is the Soldier Father Dennis Edward O'Brien It is the Soldier, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of press. It is the Soldier, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech. It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer, who gives us freedom to demonstrate. It is the Soldier who salutes the flag, who serves beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag. | top of page | A Nation's Strength Walt Whitman Not gold, but only man can make A people great and strong; Men who, for truth and honor's sake, Stand fast and suffer long. Brave men who work while others sleep, Who dare while others fly -- They build a nation's pillars deep And lift them to the sky. | top of page | Prayer of a Soldier in France Joyce Kilmer My shoulders ache beneath my pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back). I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart). Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek). I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear. (Then shall my fickle soul forget Thy Agony of Bloody Sweat?) My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palm red rivers come). Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea. So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen. | top of page | To the Memory of Brave Americans Under General Greene, in South Carolina, who fell in the action of September 8, 1781 Philip Freneau At Eutaw Springs the valiant died; Their limbs with dust are covered o'er -- Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide; How many heroes are no more! If in this wreck or ruin, they Can yet be thought to claim a tear, O smite your gentle breast, and say The friends of freedom slumber here! Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, If goodness rules thy generous breast, Sigh for the wasted rural reign; Sign for the shepherds, sunk to rest! Stranger, their humble graves adorn; You too may fall, and ask a tear; 'Tis not the beauty of the morn That proves the evening shall be clear. They saw their injured country's woe; The flaming town, the wasted field; Then rushed to meet the insulting foe; They took the spear -- but left the shield. Led by thy conquering genius, Greene, The Britons they compelled to fly; None distant viewed the fatal plain, None grieved, in such a cause to die -- But, like the Parthian, famed of old, Who, flying, still their arrows threw, These routed Britons, full as bold, Retreated, and retreating slew. Now rest in peace, our patriot band, Though far from nature's limits thrown, We trust they find a happier land, A brighter sunshine of their own. | top of page | The Things That Make a Soldier Great Edgar Guest The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die, To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever question why, Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red, The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed, The grass plot where his children play, the roses on the wall: 'Tis these that make a soldier great. He's fighting for them all. 'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave; 'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave; For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam As when behind the cause they see the little place called home. Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run, You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun. What is it through the battle smoke the valiant soldier sees? The little garden far away, the budding apple trees, The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play, Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray. The golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome But to the spot, where'er it be — the humblest spot called home. And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air; The tulips come to bloom again, the grass once more is green, And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been. He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call, And only death can stop him now -- he's fighting for them all. | top of page | We Stood For Freedom Roger J. Robicheau Former U.S. Army Specialist Fifth Class We stood for freedom just like you And loved the flag you cherish too Our uniforms felt great to wear You know the feel, and how you care. In step we marched, the cadence way The same is true with you today Oh how we tried to do our best As you do now, from test to test How young we were and proud to be Defenders of true liberty. So many thoughts bind soldiers well The facts may change, not how we jell Each soldier past, and you now here Do share what will not disappear One thought now comes, straight from my heart For soldiers home, who've done their part. I'm honored to have served with you May Godly peace, help get you through And now I'll end with a request Do ponder this, while home at rest America, respect our day Each veteran, helped freedom stay. ©2002 Roger J. Robicheau Reproduced with permission | top of page | When I See an Eagle Marie Frankson When I see an eagle, I see a great nation which has been founded on the principles of equality and freedom for all. When I see an eagle, I see our flag flying high. I see happy children playing and smiling and laughing and singing. When I see an eagle, I see a melting pot of blacks and Hispanics, Italians and Indians, Native American and Irish which make up our country. When I see an eagle, I see no more bondage, no more terrorism, ethnocentrism, racism, and hate. When I see an eagle, I see our troops fighting for what is right, fighting to keep us free. When I see an eagle, I see America standing tall and strong and proud behind her servicemen and women. When I see an eagle, I salute and say a silent prayer of thanks for the troops who protect us. © Marie Frankson Reproduced With Permission From the author: I am Marie Frankson and am 16. I wrote this poem to show that we should stand behind our troops and stop with the "Don't support the troops" stuff. This poem was sent overseas and is hanging up in every office of the different military branches. It was also published in a book for a contest. It was one of the winners of the contest. A soldier, killed by a car bomb in Iraq one week after being deployed there, was buried with the poem in his pocket. |