Won't be here tomorrow, so this for Remembrance Day, which means perhaps more to those peoples for whom the First World War was the great defining or destroying moment in their history; since Nov 11, 11th hour was originally set up in its commemoration. From one of the sentimental poems -- not Wilfrid Owen or Sassoon, but Binyon -- and really only for the second verse, which is so memorable. The whole thing is a potent mixture of truths and lies, but it was written in 1914, early. It does capture one mood of remembrance. Nobody writes like this anymore, thanks to 1915, 1916, 1917, 1918.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

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.

... But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

-- Laurence Binyon, For the Fallen (1914)