Laurence Binyon quotes

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With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, thro'an airy maze
...
the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
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