Two JulysI was so vague in 1914; tossedUpon too many purposes, and worthless; Moody; to this world or the other lost, Essential nowhere; without calm and mirthless. And now I have gained for many ends, See my straight road stretch out so white, so slender, That happy road, the road of all my friends, Made glad with peace, and holy with surrender. Proud, proud we fling to the winds of Time our token, And in our need there wells in us the power, Given England's swords to keep her honour clean. Which they shall be which pierce, and which be broken, We know not, but we know that every hour We must shine brighter, take an edge more keen. Charles John Beech Masefield |
From CourageI was afraid of Fear,Not of the foe; And when I thought that those I hold most dear My craven soul would know And turn away ashamed, who praised before, Ashamed and deep distressed to find it so, I was afraid the more. Lo, when I joined the fight, And bared my breast To all the darts of that wild, hellish night, I, only, stood the test, For Fear, which I had feared, deserved then, And forward blithely at the foe I prest King of myself again.... J.E. Stewart |
In Flanders FieldsIn Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. John McCrae |
war-monger [Vietnam Era Poem]...we'll splatter our verbal napalmon the economic warriors of the wall streets of the world till their bonds are burned and clobbering men on the head with the truth will be the folly of the new special forces JOIN ME PLEASE as i unleash on the world a multi-million megatonic fury: LOVE r j s (age 17) |
LamentThe young men of the worldAre condemned to death. They have been called up to die For the crime of their fathers. The young men of the world, The growing, the ripening fruit, Have been torn from their branches, While the memory of the blossom Is sweet in women's hearts; They have been cast for a cruel purpose Into the mashing-press and furnace. The young men of the world Look into each other's eyes, And read there the same words: Not yet! Not yet! But soon perhaps, and perhaps certain. The young men of the world No longer possess the road: The road possesses them. They no longer inherit the earth: The earth inherits them. They are no longer the masters of fire: Fire is their master; They serve him, he destroys them. They no longer rule the waters: The genius of the seas Has invented a new monster, And they fly from its teeth. They no longer breathe freely: The genius of the air Has contrived a new terror That rends them into pieces. The young men of the world Are encompassed with death He is all about them In a circle of fore and bayonets. Weep, weep, o women, And old men break your hearts. F.S. Flint |
To the Devil on His Appalling DecadenceSatan, old friend and enemy of man;Lord of the shadows and sins whereby We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue's sky Guessing at last the wideness of His plan Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain, The paradox of evil, and the pain Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan: Satan, of your old custom `twas at least To throw an apple to the soul you caught Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought Damnation due and marked it with the beast, Before its eyes were e'en disposed to dangle Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle Nor maul the body of the dear deceased. But you were called familiarly "Old Nick"-- The Devil, yet a gentleman you know! Relentless -- true, yet courteous to a foe. Man's soul your traffic was. You would not kick His bloody entrails flying in the air. Oh, "Krieg ist Krieg," we know, and "C'est la guerre!" But Satan, don't you feel a trifle sick? F.W. Harvey |
In Memoriam (Easter, 1915)The flowers left thick at nightfall in the woodThis Eastertide call into the mind of men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never again. Edward Thomas |
Gervais
(Killed at the Dardanelles)
Bees hummed and rooks called hoarsely outside the quiet room
Where by an open window Gervais, the restless boy, Fretting the while for cricket, read of Patroclos' doom And flower of youth a-dying by far-off windy Troy. Do the old tales, half-remembered, come back to haunt him now Who leaving his glad school-days and putting boyhood by Joined England's bitter Iliad? Greek beauty on the brow That frowns with dying wonder up to Hissarlik's sky! Margaret Adelaide Wilson |
UntitledI saw a man this morningWho did not wish to die: I ask, and cannot answer, If otherwise wish I. Fair broke the day this morning Against the Dardanelles; The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks Were cold as cold sea-shells. But other shells are waiting Across the Aegean Sea, Shrapnel and high explosive, Shells and hells for me. O hell of ships and cities, Hell of men like me, Fatal second Helen, Why must I follow thee? Achilles came to Troyland And I to Chersonese: He turned from wrath to battle, And I from three days' peace. Was it so hard, Achilles, So very hard to die? Thou knowest and I know not-- So much the happier am I. I will go back this morning From Imbros over the sea; Stand in the trench, Achilles, Flame-capped, and shout for me. Patrick Shaw-Stewart |
The SoldierIf I should die, think only this of me:That there's some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Give somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke |
The Ash and the OakWhen men discovered freedom firstThe fighting was on foot They were encouraged by their thirst And promises of loot, And when it feathered and bow boomed Their virtue was a root. O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And green grows the grass on the infantry! At Malplaquet and Waterloo They were polite and proud, They primed their guns with billets-doux And, as they fired, bowed. At Appomattox too, it seems Some things were understood. O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And green grows the grass on the infantry! But at Verdun and at Bastogne There was a great recoil, The blood was bitter to the bone, The trigger to the soul, And death was nothing if not dull, A hero was a fool. O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And that's an end of the infantry. Louis Simpson |
Greater LoveRed lips are not so redAs the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care; Till the fierce Love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. Your voice sings not so soft,-- Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-- Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom now none hear, Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. Heart, you were never hot, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail: Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not. Wilfred Owen |
Here Dead We LieHere dead we lie because we did not chooseTo live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; But young men think it is, and we were young. A.E. Housman |
From How Shall we Rise to Greet the Dawn?Continually they cackle thus,Those venerable birds, Crying, "Those whom the Gods love Die young" Or something of that sort. Osbert Sitwell |
PrĉmaturiWhen men are old, and their friends die,They are not so sad, Because their love is running slow, And cannot spring from the wound with so sharp a pain; And they are happy with many memories, And only a little while to be alone. But we are young, and our friends are dead Suddenly, and our quick love is torn in two; So our memories are only hopes that came to nothing. We are left along like old men; we should be dead --But there are years and years in which we shall still be young. Margaret Postgate |
Sonnet of a Son Because I am young, therefore I must be killed; Because I am strong, so must my strength be maimed; Because I love life (thus it is willed) The joy of life from me a forfeit's claimed. If I were old or weak, if foul disease Had robbed me of all love of living--then Life would be mine to use as I might please; Such the all-wise arbitraments of men! Poor mad mankind! that like some Herod calls For one wide holocaust of youth and strength! Bitter your wakening when the curtain falls Upon your drunken drama, and at length With vision uninflamed you then behold A world of sick and halt and weak and old. Eliot Crawshay-Williams |
`Now That You Too'Now that you too must shortly go the wayWhich in these bloodshot years uncounted men Have gone in vanishing armies day by day, And in their numbers will not come again: I must not strain the moments of our meeting Striving for each look, each accent, not to miss, Or question of our parting and our greeting, Is this the last of all? is this--or this? Last sight of all it may be with these eyes, Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears, Even serving love, are our mortalities, And cling to what they own in mortal fears:-- But oh, let end what will, I hold you fast By immortal love, which has no first or last. Elanor Farjeon |
A KissShe kissed me when she said good-bye--A child's kiss, neither bold nor shy. We had met but a few short summer hours; Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers, Sports and people; had rambled through A casual catchy song or two, And walked with arms linked to the car By the light of a single misty star. (It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.) And so we turned to say good-bye; But somehow or other, I don't know why, --Perhaps `t was the feel of the khaki coat (She'd a brother in Flanders then) that smote Her heart with a sudden tenderness Which issued in that swift caress-- Somehow, to her, at any rate A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate; And so she lifted her dewey face And kissed me--but without a trace Of passion,--and we said good-bye... A child's kiss,...neither bold nor shy. My friend, I like you--it seemed to say-- Here's to our meeting again some day! Goodbye. Bernard Freeman Trotter |
The Wind on the DownsI like to think of you as brown and tall,As strong and living as you used to be, In khaki tunic, Sam Brown belt and all, And standing there and laughing down at me. Because they tell me, dear, that you are dead, Because I can no longer see your face, You have not died, it is not true, instead You seek adventure in some other place. That you are round me, I believe; I hear you laughing as you used to do, Yet loving all the things I think of you; And knowing you are happy, should I grieve? You follow and are watchful where I go; How should you leave me, having loved me so? We walked along the tow-path, you and I, Beside the sluggish-moving, still canal; It seemed impossible that you should die; I think of you the same and always shall. We thought of many things and spoke of few, And life lay all uncertainly before, And now I walk alone and think of you, And wonder what new kingdoms you explore. Over the railway line, across the grass, While up above the golden wings are spread, Flying, ever flying overhead, Here still I see your khaki figure pass, And when I leave the meadow, almost wait That you should open first the wooden gate. Marian Allen |
The Heart-CryShe turned the page of wounds and deathWith trembling fingers. In a breath The gladness of her life became Naught but a memory and a name. Farewell! Farewell! I might not share The perils it was yours to dare. Dauntless you fronted death: for me Rests to face life as fearlessly. F.W. Bourdillon |
My CompanyIIn many acts and quiet observances A body and soul, entire. I cannot tell What time your life became mine: Perhaps when one summer night We halted on the roadside In the starlight only, And you sang your sad home-songs, Dirges which I standing outside you Coldly condemned. Perhaps, one night, descending cold, When rum was mighty acceptable, And my doling gave birth to sensual gratitude. And then our fights: we've fought together Compact, unanimous; And I have felt the pride of leadership. In many acts and quiet observances You absorbed me: Until one day I stood eminent And I saw you gathered round me, Uplooking, And about you a radiance that seemed to beat With variant glow and to give Grace to our unity. But, God! I know that I'll stand Someday in the loneliest wilderness, Someday my heart will cry For the soul that has been, but that now Is scatter'd with the winds, Deceased and devoid. I know that I'll wander with a cry: "O beautiful men, O men I loved, O whither are you gone, my company?' 2With their monstrous burdens. They bear wooden planks And iron sheeting Through the area of death. When a flare curves through the sky They rest immobile. Then on again, Sweating and blaspheming-- "Oh, bloody Christ!" My men, my modern Christs, Your bloody agony confronts the world. 3lies on the wire. It is death to fetch his soulless corpse. A man of mine lies on the wire; And he will rot And first his lips The worms will eat. It is not thus I would have him kiss'd, But with the warm passionate lips Of his comrade here. 4A giant attitude and godlike mood, And then detachedly regard All riots, conflicts and collisions. The men I've lived with Lurch suddenly into a far perspective; They distantly gather like a dark cloud of birds In the autumn sky. Urged by some unanimous Volition or fate, Clouds clash in opposition; The sky quivers, the dead descend; Earth yawns. They are all of one species. From my giant attitude, In a godlike mood, I laugh till space is filled With hellish merriment. Then again I resume My human docility, Bow my head And share their doom. Herbert Read |
In MemoriamPrivate D. Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.So you were David's father, And he was your only son, And the new-cut peats are rotting And the work is left undone, Because of an old man weeping, Just an old man in pain, For David, his son David, That will not come again. Oh, the letters he wrote you, And I can see them still, Not a word of the fighting But just the sheep on the hill and how you should get the crops in Ere the year get stormier, And the Bosches have got his body, And I was his officer. You were only David's father, But I had fifty sons When we went up in the evening Under the arch of the guns, And we came back at twilight-- O God! I heard them call To me for help and pity That could not help at all. Oh, never will I forget you, My men that trusted me, More my sons than your fathers', For they could only see The little helpless babies And the young men in their pride. They could not see you dying, And hold you while you died. Happy and young and gallant, They saw their first-born go, But not the strong limbs broken And the beautiful men brought low, The piteous writhing bodies, They screamed, "Don't leave me, sir," For they were only your fathers But I was your officer. E.A. Mackintosh |
Anthem for Doomed YouthWhat passing-bells for these who die as cattle?-- Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Wilfred Owen
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