Meaningful Poems To Read On Memorial Day

A dedicated physician and teacher, John McCrae was also a celebrated poet. He wrote In Flanders Fields, his most famous poem, after seeing the graves of fallen WWI soldiers covered in blooming poppies.

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.

An American poet known for such groundbreaking works as Leaves of Grass, Walk Whitman also witnessed the horrors of the Civil War unfold during his lifetime. In this poem, the narrator contemplates a soldier slain by war.

Vigil strange I kept on the field one night;

When you my son and my comrade dropt at my side that day,

One look I but gave which your dear eyes return’d with a look I shall never forget,

One touch of your hand to mine O boy, reach’d up as you lay on the ground,

Then onward I sped in the battle, the even-contested battle,

Till late in the night reliev’d to the place at last again I made my way,

Found you in death so cold dear comrade, found your body son of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Bared your face in the starlight, curious the scene, cool blew the moderate night-wind,

Long there and then in vigil I stood, dimly around me the battle-field spreading,

Vigil wondrous and vigil sweet there in the fragrant silent night,

But not a tear fell, not even a long-drawn sigh, long, long I gazed,

Then on the earth partially reclining sat by your side leaning my chin in my hands,

Passing sweet hours, immortal and mystic hours with you dearest comrade—not a tear, not a word,

Vigil of silence, love and death, vigil for you my son and my soldier,

As onward silently stars aloft, eastward new ones upward stole,

Vigil final for you brave boy, (I could not save you, swift was your death,

I faithfully loved you and cared for you living, I think we shall surely meet again,)

Till at latest lingering of the night, indeed just as the dawn appear’d,

My comrade I wrapt in his blanket, envelop’d well his form,

Folded the blanket well, tucking it carefully over head and carefully under feet,

And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his grave, in his rude-dug grave I deposited,

Ending my vigil strange with that, vigil of night and battle-field dim,

Vigil for boy of responding kisses, (never again on earth responding,)

Vigil for comrade swiftly slain, vigil I never forget, how as day brighten’d,

I rose from the chill ground and folded my soldier well in his blanket,

And buried him where he fell.

A renowned poet of WWI, Owen was a soldier who wrote about the war as he experienced it. One of his best-known works, this poem examines the horrible realities of war.

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.

A Pulitzer Prize winner, Sandburg was a Swedish-American poet who was prized for his genius with words. In this work, the narrator reflects on past wars and their lasting effects.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.

Shovel them under and let me work—

I am the grass; I cover all.

And pile them high at Gettysburg

And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.

Shovel them under and let me work.

Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:

What place is this?

Where are we now?

I am the grass.

Let me work.

Best known as the author of Moby-Dick, Melville was also a talented poet. This work is a meditation on a major battle from the Civil War.

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

Over the field in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh—

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain

through the pause of night

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh—

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there—

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve—

Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.

A Quaker and abolitionist, Whittier is known for his poetry inspired by the Civil War. This poem recounts a particularly deadly day of combat.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,

The charging trumpets blow;

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps

Her ancient promise well,

Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps

The battle’s breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours

Through harvest-happy farms,

And still she wears her fruits and flowers

Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain

And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,

And hearts with hate are hot;

But even-paced come round the years,

And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,

With songs our groans of pain;

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf

The war-field’s crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon’s pause, we hear

Her sweet thanksgiving-psalm;

Too near to God for doubt or fear,

She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below

The fires that blast and burn;

For all the tears of blood we sow

She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours

The good of suffering born,—

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,

And ripen like her corn.

Oh, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees

Our golden prophecies!

Oh, give to us her finer ear!

Above this stormy din,

We too would hear the bells of cheer

Ring peace and freedom in.

A poet and priest, Hopkins wrote about everything from nature to the human condition. This quiet meditation on peace is especially fitting for Memorial Day.

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,

Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?

When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite

To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but

That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows

Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu

Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,

That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house

He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,

He comes to brood and sit.