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I sit upon soft ground, made sacred by the sacrifice of many

Not only native sons but brothers, sisters, cousins all so noble made bold by their giving

to be remembered always by sad poppy silent in distant fields seen by reflective eyes

I sit upon soft ground, words whisper into my ear of joy and sadness

Many things, history past, make us what we are and none know what tomorrow holds

Yet we shall reach out to it with brace hearts, with open minds

Heal harsh wounds, soothe troubled brows

Let no hatred come to us with bitter fashion

Let us not fear inspire terror nor ensue

Let no spite win the day

For we are better souls by tempered antiquity made so

Giving and caring, that, my friends, truly is the British way.