As we move towards the end of the month, here are two classic poems to help us commemorate Memorial Day, a holiday first observed in 1868 in the United States after the conclusion of the Civil War.

Back then, it was known as Decoration Day, where folks would decorate the tombstones of fallen Union soldiers. Over the years, this rememberance expanded to recognize the sacrifices of American soldiers of all wars. To learn more, visit pbs.org.

The sonnet-ballad, Gwendolyn Brooks 

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

They took my lover’s tallness off to war, Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess What I can use an empty heart-cup for. He won’t be coming back here any more. Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew When he went walking grandly out that door That my sweet love would have to be untrue.

Would have to be untrue. Would have to court Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort) Can make a hard man hesitate—and change.

And he will be the one to stammer, “Yes.” Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

Dulce et Decorum Est, Wilfred Owen

 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.

 Andrea Gutierrez is the editor of the Bryan County News.