Not Poppies But Roses

King, keep St Crispian’s and I’ll have St Valentine’s;
For the glory of life is in loving, not in war;
In the booming of our passions and the marching of our hearts;
Not scars of old wounds but memories of kisses;
Not battlefields but places we made love;
Not the circling of ravens but dove like spirits soaring;
Not poppies but roses; not cold graves but warm beds;
Not bravely dying but bravely living to the full
And, though our names and ranks may not be listed
On marble monuments the dead will never know,
We gaze on our monuments and they are golden;
For ours is the glory of watching our children grow.