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Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all

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  • Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all

    Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all. True. All includes those who served, those who are serving, their loved ones who support them and sometimes have to grieve them. Thankfulness for the sacrifices given~ not only by those who have served but by those who love them, support them, have watched them head to danger and sometimes have lost them. Thank you.
    Last edited by leswp1; 05-30-2016, 10:57 AM.

  • #2
    Re: Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all

    Thank you. You are the reason I am free:
    http://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-x4...jpg?imgmax=800
    Never really developed a taste for tequila. Kind of hard to understand how you make a drink out of something that sharp, inhospitable. Now, bourbon is easy to understand.
    Tastes like a warm summer day. -Raylan Givens

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    • #3
      Re: Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all

      by John McCrae, May 1915

      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.

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      • #4
        Re: Memorial Day- We don't know them all but we owe them all

        Lest we forget:

        Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
        Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
        Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
        And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
        Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
        But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
        Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
        Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
        Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
        Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
        But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
        And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
        Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
        As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
        In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
        He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
        If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
        Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
        And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
        His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
        If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
        Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
        Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
        Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
        My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
        To children ardent for some desperate glory,
        The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
        Pro patria mori.

        -- Wilfred Owen

        Honor the soldiers. Kill the militarists.
        Cornell University
        National Champion 1967, 1970
        ECAC Champion 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1973, 1980, 1986, 1996, 1997, 2003, 2005, 2010
        Ivy League Champion 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1977, 1978, 1983, 1984, 1985, 1996, 1997, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2012, 2014, 2018, 2019, 2020

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