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They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them nor the years condem.          At the going down of the sun and in the morning         We will remember them.                         (Lawrence Bimyon, for the fallen)
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"Their name liveth for ever"  inscribed on the Stone of Remembrance, (designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens) and  placed in a prominent position in every War Cemetery which is under the care of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
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He stirred, shifting his body: then the pain leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore his groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.  But someone was beside him; soon he lay shuddering because that evil thing had passed. . . . . . .
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And Death, who stepped towards him, stopped and stared.     Light many lamps and gather round his bed.   Lend him your eyes, warm blood and will to live.  Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.  He's young; he hated War; how should he die.  When cruel old campaigners win safe through . . . . .
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But Death replied: "I choose him."  So he went, and there was silence in the summer night;  Silence and safety; and then the veils of sleep.  Then, far away, began the thudding of the guns.               (Seigfried Sassoon)
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Private Bob Young was conscious right to the last. I lay alongside him and said "Can I do anything for you, Bob ? "  He said "Straighten my legs, Jack" - but he had no legs. I touched the bones, and that satisfied him. Then he said "Get my wife's photograph out of my breast pocket" . . . . .
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I took the photograph out and put it in his hands. He couldn't move, he couldn't lift a finger, but he somehow held his wife's photograph on his chest. And that's how Bob Young died . . .                 (Sergeant Jack Dorgan)
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The long war had ended  Its miseries grown faded.  Deaf men became difficult to talk to.  Heroes became bores.  Those alchemists who had converted blood into gold had grown elderly.  But they had a meeting, Saying "We think perhaps we ought to put up tombs, or erect altars . . . .
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To those brave lads who were so willingly burnt, or blinded, or maimed, Who lost all likeness to a living thing. Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh for our sakes. It would look well. Or we might educate the children"                                             (Osbert Sitwell)
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The air is loud with death, The dark earth spurts with fire, The explosions ceaseless are, Timelessly now, some minutes past, These dead strode with vigorous life, Till the shapnel called "An end !" But not to all. In bleeding pangs some borne on stretchers dreamed of home of loved ones. Seen through a mist of red.       (Isaac Rosenberg)