I miss them all and I am ever humbled by their service. I am unworthy. I will never forget nor surrender. That they deemed me, all of us, worth their sacrifice lends my spirit wings and I will soar or perish in the flight.
Update: Daniel Greenfield at Sultan Knish may have said it better than anyone. Certainly better than I could.
THOUGH all the Dead were all forgot And razed were every tomb, The Worm-the Worm that dieth not Compels Us to our doom. Though all which once was England stands Subservient to Our will, The Dead of whom we washed Our hands, They have observance still. We laid no finger to Their load. We multiplied Their woes. We used Their dearly-opened road To traffic with Their foes: And yet to Them men turn their eyes, To Them are vows renewed Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice, Honour and Fortitude! Which things must perish. But Our hour Comes not by staves or swords So much as, subtly, through the power Of small corroding words. No need to make the plot more plain By any open thrust; But-see Their memory is slain Long ere Their bones are dust! Wisely, but yearly, filch some wreath- Lay some proud rite aside- And daily tarnish with Our breath The ends for which They died. Distract, deride, decry, confuse- (Or-if it serves Us-pray!) So presently We break the use And meaning of Their day!