Eugene Matthias - Funeral Celebrant
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Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep 
I am not there. I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow. 
I am the diamond glints on snow. 
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. 
I am the gentle autumn rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush 
I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry; 
I am not there, I did not die.
Because I Could Not Stop For Death
He kindly stopped for me--- 
The Carriage held but just Ourselves--- 
And Immortality.
We slowly drove---He knew no haste 
And I had put away 
My labour and my leisure too, 
For His Civility---
We passed the School, where Children strove 
At Recess---in the Ring--- 
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain--- 
We passed the Setting Sun---
Or rather---He passed Us--- 
The Dews drew quivering and chill--- 
For only Gossamer, my Gown--- 
My Tippet---Only Tulle---
We paused before a House that seemed 
A Swelling of the Ground--- 
The Roof scarcely visible--- 
The Cornice---in the Ground---
Since then---tis Centuries---and yet 
Feels shorter than the Day 
I first surmised the Horses Heads 
Were toward Eternity--- 
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For The Fallen
 
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children, 
England mourns for her dead across the sea. 
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit, 
Fallen in the cause of the free. 
Solemn the drums thrill: Death August and royal 
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres. 
There is music in the midst of desolation 
And a glory that shines upon our tears. 
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 grow not 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. 
They mingle not with laughing comrades again; 
They sit no more at familiar tables of home; 
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time; 
They sleep beyond England's foam. 
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.
by Laurence Binyon


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He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
by W. B. Yeats
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If
If you can keep your head when all about you 
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; 
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, 
But make allowance for their doubting too: 
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, 
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, 
Or being hated don't give way to hating, 
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream---and not make dreams your master; 
If you can think---and not make thoughts your aim, 
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster 
And treat those two impostors just the same:. 
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken 
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, 
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, 
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings 
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, 
And lose, and start again at your beginnings, 
And never breathe a word about your loss: 
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew 
To serve your turn long after they are gone, 
And so hold on when there is nothing in you 
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, 
Or walk with Kings---nor lose the common touch, 
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, 
If all men count with you, but none too much: 
If you can fill the unforgiving minute 
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, 
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, 
And---which is more---you'll be a Man, my son!
by Rudyard Kipling
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I Have A Rendevous With Death
I have a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade 
When Spring comes round 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 I to my pledged word am true, 
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
Alan Seeger (1888-1916)
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In Flanders Fields
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. 
by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae
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In Memory
Serene and beautiful and very wise, 
Most erudite in curious Grecian lore, 
You lay and read your learned books, and bore 
A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs. 
The song within your heart could never rise 
Until love bade it spread its wings and soar. 
Nor could you look on Beauty's face before 
A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes. 
Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; 
Love is a poignant and accustomed pain. 
It is a burst of Heaven-shaking thunder; 
It is a linnet's fluting after rain. 
Love's voice is through your song;  
above and under 
And in each note to echo and remain
A red rose is His Sacred Heart,  
a white rose is His face, 
And His breath has turned the barren  
world to a rich and flowery place. 
He is the Rose of Sharon,  
His gardener am I, 
And I shall drink His fragrance  
in Heaven when I die.
by Joyce Kilmer
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Memorial Day
The bugle echoes shrill and sweet, 
But not of war it sings to-day. 
The road is rhythmic with the feet 
Of men-at-arms who come to pray. 
The roses blossom white and red 
On tombs where weary soldiers lie; 
Flags wave above the honored dead 
And martial music cleaves the sky. 
Above their wreath-strewn  
graves we kneel, 
They kept the faith and  
fought the fight. 
Through flying lead and  
crimson steel 
They plunged for Freedom  
and the Right. 
May we, their grateful children, learn 
Their strength, who lie  
beneath this sod, 
Who went through fire  
and death to earn 
At last the accolade of God.
In shining rank on rank arrayed 
They march, the legions of the Lord; 
He is their Captain unafraid, 
The Prince of Peace . . .  
Who brought a sword.
by Joyce Kilmer
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Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature's first green is gold, 
Her hardest hue to hold 
Her early leaf's a flower; 
But only so an hour. 
Then leaf subsides to leaf. 
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day. 
Nothing gold can stay.
Robert Frost (1875-1963)
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Not In Vein
If I can stop one heart from breaking, 
I shall not live in vain: 
If I can ease one life the aching, 
Or cool one pain, 
Or help one fainting robin 
Unto his nest again, 
I shall not live in vain.
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) Amherst, Massachusetts
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Remembrance Day
Eleven O'Clock 
The crowd is gathered 
Blood stained lapel
In a silence of white crosses 
The granite monument inspires 
Bronze men, stand up! 
The people commemorate  
your sacrifice 
Paraded from the  
horrific maelstrom 
All wars mistaken 
Memory engraved with  
the chisel of war 
Outpourings of feelings
In a wreath of poppies 
A mother offers the last lament 
Of a son fallen  
for his country
O murderous war! 
When will you  
drop your guns?
By Denyse B. Mercier
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Resignation
There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside,  
howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair! 
The air is full of farewells to the dying, 
And mournings for the dead; 
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, 
Will not be comforted! 
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
Assume this dark disguise. 
We see but dimly through the mists  
and vapors; 
Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad,  
funereal tapers 
May be heaven's distant lamps. 
There is no Death! What seems  
so is transition; 
This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
Whose portal we call Death. 
She is not dead,€the child of our affection,€ 
But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 
In that great cloister's 
stillness and seclusion, 
By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation,  
safe from sin's pollution, 
She lives, whom we call dead. 
Day after day we think  
what she is doing 
In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year,  
her tender steps pursuing, 
Behold her grown more fair. 
Thus do we walk with her,  
and keep unbroken 
The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance,  
though unspoken, 
May reach her where she lives. 
Not as a child shall we again behold her; 
For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 
She will not be a child; 
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
Clothed with celestial grace; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
Shall we behold her face. 
And though at times impetuous  
with emotion 
And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves  
moaning like the ocean, 
That cannot be at rest,€
We will be patient,  
and assuage the feeling 
We may not wholly stay; 
By silence sanctifying,  
not concealing, 
The grief that must have way.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Tears In His Eyes
 I begged my father not to go 
He looked at me and  
walked to the door so slow.
Tears filled his eyes as  
he bade my mother goodbye 
I began to cry.
He opened his arms to me 
"I must protect my country you see."
I hugged him once and  
kissed him twice 
He wrapped his arms  
around me, it felt so nice.
Rain started to wail,  
she looked so frail 
And I knew my  
emotions would fail.
But instead of breaking  
down and making things worse 
My words came out  
slow without a curse.
I dried my tears and  
she looked at me 
"Father will be back  
some day, you will see."
Then as we all cried,  
my mother took my hand 
And she led us to a  
place where we must hide.
It has been six years 
That the war has  
hammered in my ears.
But now it is done 
And news has come.
Father is dead, but I am free 
As free as I want to be.
So let's stand for a minute 
with our hearts put in it.
And remember those father,  
mothers and brother 
that died so we could be free
By Lisa Krahn
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Thanks For Your Life
They fight to live 
They fight to die 
To give us freedom 
From land to sky.
They gave us a chance 
To rule on our own 
Now we live to show them 
How strongly we've grown.
Thanks for your fight 
Thanks for your life 
We now live in Peace 
Day and night.
By Jordan Pike
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The Healers
In a vision of the night I saw them,  
In the battles of the night.  
€Mid the roar and the reeling  
shadows of blood  
They were moving like light, 
Light of the reason, guarded 
Tense within the will,  
As a lantern under a tossing of boughs  
Burns steady and still. 
With scrutiny calm, and with fingers  
Patient as swift  
They bind up the hurts and 
the pain-writhen  
Bodies uplift, 
Untired and defenceless; around them  
With shrieks in its breath  
Bursts stark from the terrible horizon 
Impersonal death; 
But they take not their courage from anger  
That blinds the hot being;  
They take not their pity from weakness;  
Tender, yet seeing;
Feeling, yet nerved to the uttermost;  
Keen, like steel;  
Yet the wounds of the mind  
they are stricken with,  
Who shall heal? 
They endure to have eyes  
of the watcher 
In hell, and not swerve  
For an hour from the faith  
that they follow, 
The light that they serve. 
Man true to man, to his kindness  
That overflows all,  
To his spirit erect in the thunder  
When all his forts fall,
This light, in the tiger-mad welter,  
They serve and they save.  
What song shall be worthy  
to sing of them 
Braver than the brave? 
By Laurence Binyon
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The Pride Of Victory
One morning, bright and radiant, 
As the sun rose in the sky, 
A drumbeat sounded through the hills, 
And echoed far and high. 
One lone drumbeat o'er the hills, 
Sounds like a cannon's roar. 
The creatures dive for shelter, 
For, the beat precedes a war. 
A shout rings from the hillsides, 
And the soldiers stampede down. 
One young, tiny drummer boy, 
Gets trampled to the ground. 
As the human waves collide, 
And the first shot rings aloud, 
A soldier falls in battle; 
The flowers form his shroud. 
Both sides mix together, 
Here their colours blend and clot. 
But, the soldiers keep on fighting, 
And unity stands for naught. 
As the last gunshots fall silent, 
All the forms dead on the earth. 
Two enemies stand in stillness, 
As they turn to face their dearth.
Clouds turn the sky to black, 
And rain falls all around. 
A light shines through the darkness, 
Cleansing bloodstained ground. 
They stand there in the silence, 
Gaze through the other's heart, 
Link hands in grievous quiet, 
Piercing hatred, as a dart. 
As the smoke fades in the distance, 
The hurt souls find release, 
The price too high for victory, 
They both agree to peace.
by Amber Atkinson
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The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, 
And sorry I could not travel both 
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could 
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair 
And having perhaps the better claim, 
Because it was grassy and wanted wear; 
Though as for that, the passing there 
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay 
In leaves no step had trodden black 
Oh, I kept the first for another day! 
Yet knowing how way leads on to way, 
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh 
Somewhere ages and ages hence: 
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --  
I took the one less traveled by, 
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Lee Frost
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The Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier
A young man left his life one day, 
To fight a war yet far away, 
Fighting to let peace be known, 
He thought one day  
he would come home.
He left his love,  
said with a smile, 
"I'm coming home,  
in a short while." 
He never knew  
his time was near, 
He left to fight,  
without a fear.
The scene was grey and bleak, 
A win, a loss, a gain, a fall, 
The fighting went on,  
week after week 
They wanted to end it all.
By the time the war was won, 
The bloodshed over,  
the battles done, 
One hundred thousand,  
and 16 more, 
Canadians dead,  
that was the score.
The brave young man  
that left his love, 
Was gone to face  
the lord above, 
His human body never found, 
With poppies blowing,  
there came a sound.
A service to remember them, 
Who came before,  
the brave young men, 
A cannon booms,  
a bugle sounds, 
The tomb of those  
whose life it crowns.
We remember with  
a Tomb of Stone, 
For the soldiers still unknown, 
All those who fought  
and died before, 
And those who'll  
fight in future wars.
Through many wars,  
o'er many years, 
Men and women looked  
past their fears, 
This tomb remembers  
all of them,
The Tomb of  
the Unknown Soldier.
By Jennifer McKay
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To Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,  
Shutting, with careful  
fingers and benign, 
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes,  
embower'd from the light, 
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: 
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close 
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes, 
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws 
Around my bed its lulling charities. 
Then save me, or the passed day will shine 
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,€ 
Save me from curious Conscience,  
that still lords 
Its strength for darkness,  
burrowing like a mole; 
Turn the key deftly  
in the oiled wards, 
And seal the hushed  
Casket of my Soul. ​
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