I closed my remarks with a poem by Archibald MacLeish. He speaks for them when he asks:
“Who in the still houses has not heard them?
“They say. Our deaths are not ours; they are yours. They will mean what you make them mean.
“They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for peace and a new hope or for nothing, we cannot say. It is you who must say this.
“They say: We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning. We were young, we have died, remember us.”