Winter Song
The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed,
The Chances
I mind as ‘ow the night afore that show Us five got talking, we was in the know, “Over the top to-morrer; boys, we’re for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that’s
Preface
This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, dominion or power, except War. Above
Exposure
I Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us. . . Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent. . . Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the
On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action
Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm, Great gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse; Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse Huge imprecations like a blasting charm! Reach at that Arrogance
S. I. W
“I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I
Anthem For Doomed Youth
What 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 for them; no prayers nor
Futility
Move him into the sun Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse
The Last Laugh
‘O Jesus Christ! I’m hit,’ he said; and died. Whether he vainly cursed, or prayed indeed, The Bullets chirped – ‘In vain! vain! vain!’ Machine-guns chuckled, ‘Tut-tut! Tut-tut!’ And the Big Gun guffawed. Another
The Dead-Beat
He dropped, more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; Didn’t appear to know
Greater Love
Red lips are not so red As 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
Insensibility
I Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their feet Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. The front
The Sentry
We’d found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime Kept
Arms And The Boy
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; Blue with all malice, like a madman’s flash; And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh. Lend him
Smile, Smile, Smile
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday’s Mail; the casualties (typed small) And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned; For, said the