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Laurence Binyon. 1869-1943 . Andrew Taylor. Fact File. Born 10 August 1869 at Lancaster Died 10 March 1943 at Reading Wrote 16 poems He died aged 83 Parents were called Frederick Binyon and Mary Dockray. Early life.
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Laurence Binyon 1869-1943 Andrew Taylor
Fact File Born 10 August 1869 at Lancaster Died 10 March 1943 at Reading Wrote 16 poems He died aged 83 Parents were called Frederick Binyon and Mary Dockray
Early life Robert Laurence Binyon was born in Lancaster, the son of a clergyman He was educated St Paul's School and Trinity College. He started at to write poetry at the age of 33. He worked at the British Museums Department of Printed Books and the Department of Prints
Laurence Binyon did not write many poems in his life because he had many religious commitments because he was a Quaker. He most famous poem is probably for the fallen which is about the 1st world war and is read out on Remberance Sunday services across the globe. Poems A Song For the Fallen In the High Leaves of a Walnut In the shadow of a broken house Invocation to Youth Men of Verdun Nothing is enough! O World, be Nobler The Burning of the Leaves The Children Dancing The Healers The House That Was The Rain Was Ending, And Light The Woods Entry The Zeppelin To the Belgians
. For the Fallen • Laurence wrote For the Fallen while sitting on the cliffs between Pentire Point and The Rumps in north Cornwall, a stone plaque was erected at the spot in 2001 to commemorate the fact. The plaque bears the inscription • For The Fallen • Composed on these cliffs 1914 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 royalSings sorrow up into immortal spheres.There is music in the midst of desolationAnd 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 morningWe 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 knownAs 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