We will remember them.

I have always been fascinated by the power of poetry - real poetry, that is - the sort that rhymes and scans. It's the discipline of crystallising your thoughts so as to fit them into the restraints of poetic form which is so difficult and so potent when it's done well. War - and in particular the First World War produced some of the mightiest poems ever written. Why I'm not sure, but perhaps at the time it was the only acceptable way in which people could give vent to their feelings. And what comes across most often is the feeling of anger - rage almost. There are so many great poems of this period, but if I have to chose one it would be "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen, who was himself a soldier and ironically was killed just a week or so before the war's end. Here it is, and just look at that last line as an example of how to speak volumes in just eight words.

What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns,
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.