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Poems of the Great War 1914-1918
Published to commemorate the eightieth anniversary of Armistice, this collection is intended to be an introduction to the great wealth of First World War Poetry. The sequence of poems is random - making it ideal for dipping into - and drawn from a number of sources, mixing both well-known and less familiar poetry.
160 pages, Paperback
First published October 29, 1998
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About the author
Richard Aldington
232 books29 followersEdward Godfree Aldington was an English writer, poet, translator, critic, and biographer. He joined the British Army in 1916 and was wounded in 1918.
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_...
See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 46 reviews
November 23, 2019
It was not a secret to me that the poems written in the First World War were a heart breaking testimony of the horrors of that war, of the meaningless loss of life and of the harm done to the mental stability of millions of people. Often in simple words, scribbled on a piece of paper or in a little diary, in the trenches or back in the rear during short breaks. But still: reading them once again brought me out of balance. This booklet collects a selection of 50 of them. It is, alas, a rather random choice and only British. Among them the horrible 'Dulce et decorum est', by Wilfred Owen, still is the most touching.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
—Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.
—Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
February 23, 2016
I used to be part of an international penfriend group, exchanging letters with people all over the world. A friend in Ireland sent me this little book back in 1998, when it was published to commemorate the 80th anniversary of the Armistice. She knew I liked to read, and thought I would appreciate the poetry.
I am embarrassed to admit that except for one or two poems, I never read the book until now. I am more interested in both poetry and World War One these days, and I decided it was finally time to give this book the attention it deserves.
The Publisher's Note says this is "intended to be an introduction to the great wealth of First World War poetry, and makes no attempt to be comprehensive." There are poems by such familiar names as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and Edward Thomas. Others I did not know such as Isaac Rosenberg and Ivor Gurney. Some died on the battlefield, some survived the war but were scarred physically and/or emotionally afterwards.
I have always been curious about why there was so much poetry written during WWI. There were still 'war poets' (technically simply soldiers who wrote poetry about their experiences in battle) in later wars, but something about that first horrible global conflict seemed to trigger an outpouring of creativity, sorrow, and such pain that it is difficult to read the works at times. The poets who became soldiers showed us the realities of this 'great' war.
I have learned about and ordered a book called The Great War and Modern Memory by Paul Fussell, and I hope I will find answers to some of my questions about this topic in its pages.
Meanwhile, the selected poems in this little book made me weep with the pain of what Man does to Man. They are intensely haunting, beautifully written, personal and global at the same time. There are stark, gruesome images, exactly what these men saw, heard and felt while in the trenches. No war will ever be the same as this one. No war should ever be at all.
Bach And The Sentry by Ivor Gurney, poet/composer
Watching the dark my spirit rose in flood
On that most dearest Prelude of my delight.
The low-lying mist lifted its hood,
The October stars showed nobly in clear night.
When I return, and to real music-making,
And play that Prelude, how will it happen then?
Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking,
With a dull sense of No Man's Land again?
Repression Of War Experience by Siegfried Sassoon, poet
Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame --
No, no, not that, -- it's bad to think of war,
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to
scare you;
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you're right as rain . . .
Why won't it rain? . . .
I wish there'd be a thunder-storm tonight,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown,and black, and white, and green.
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O, do read something; they're so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees, --
Not people killed in battle, -- they're in France, --
But horrible shapes in shrouds -- old men who died
Slow, natural deaths, -- old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You'd never think there was a bloody war on! . . .
O yes, you would . . . why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud, -- quite soft . . . they never cease --
Those whispering guns -- O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop -- I'm going crazy;
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.
I am embarrassed to admit that except for one or two poems, I never read the book until now. I am more interested in both poetry and World War One these days, and I decided it was finally time to give this book the attention it deserves.
The Publisher's Note says this is "intended to be an introduction to the great wealth of First World War poetry, and makes no attempt to be comprehensive." There are poems by such familiar names as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and Edward Thomas. Others I did not know such as Isaac Rosenberg and Ivor Gurney. Some died on the battlefield, some survived the war but were scarred physically and/or emotionally afterwards.
I have always been curious about why there was so much poetry written during WWI. There were still 'war poets' (technically simply soldiers who wrote poetry about their experiences in battle) in later wars, but something about that first horrible global conflict seemed to trigger an outpouring of creativity, sorrow, and such pain that it is difficult to read the works at times. The poets who became soldiers showed us the realities of this 'great' war.
I have learned about and ordered a book called The Great War and Modern Memory by Paul Fussell, and I hope I will find answers to some of my questions about this topic in its pages.
Meanwhile, the selected poems in this little book made me weep with the pain of what Man does to Man. They are intensely haunting, beautifully written, personal and global at the same time. There are stark, gruesome images, exactly what these men saw, heard and felt while in the trenches. No war will ever be the same as this one. No war should ever be at all.
Bach And The Sentry by Ivor Gurney, poet/composer
Watching the dark my spirit rose in flood
On that most dearest Prelude of my delight.
The low-lying mist lifted its hood,
The October stars showed nobly in clear night.
When I return, and to real music-making,
And play that Prelude, how will it happen then?
Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking,
With a dull sense of No Man's Land again?
Repression Of War Experience by Siegfried Sassoon, poet
Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame --
No, no, not that, -- it's bad to think of war,
When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to
scare you;
And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you're right as rain . . .
Why won't it rain? . . .
I wish there'd be a thunder-storm tonight,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown,and black, and white, and green.
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O, do read something; they're so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees, --
Not people killed in battle, -- they're in France, --
But horrible shapes in shrouds -- old men who died
Slow, natural deaths, -- old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You'd never think there was a bloody war on! . . .
O yes, you would . . . why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud, -- quite soft . . . they never cease --
Those whispering guns -- O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop -- I'm going crazy;
I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.
February 21, 2020
Cada uno de los poemas me ha conmovido por completo. Me han puesto los pelos de punta, las lagrimas en los ojos y el dolor en el corazón. Con cada uno de ellos he comprendido mucho mejor este triste período de la Historia.
Y a la vez me han inspirado tanta tristeza, por todo lo que describen y por la oposición que encontraron todos estos poetas de la sociedad, por defender el pacifismo,...Por todo esto, y por la belleza de sus melancólicos versos, nunca, jamas se les debería de olvidar.
Y a la vez me han inspirado tanta tristeza, por todo lo que describen y por la oposición que encontraron todos estos poetas de la sociedad, por defender el pacifismo,...Por todo esto, y por la belleza de sus melancólicos versos, nunca, jamas se les debería de olvidar.
November 11, 2019
So sad and heartbreaking, but I'm glad I read them <3
November 19, 2019
Studied at A-Level 14 years ago and still find so moving
September 17, 2024
I'm not really a fan of poems, but these have made an impact, especially the last poem Lamplight by May Wedderburn Cannan. This book will haunt me for the rest of my days, not just because of the poems, but because this was the last book I read with Bruno before he passed.
October 5, 2018
A wonderful collection, if rather sparse with regard to female poets. Incredibly moving.
January 3, 2026
I first came across this book when I visited the Imperial War Museum in London a few months back, and needless to say I was intrigued.
The poems were very interesting and thought provoking. They captured the horrors and dismay reality of World War One. I have previously heard of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen thanks to studying their poems during school. Have to say that out of the two I think Sassoon is the best - a lot of his poems were shocking in a good way and they had a profound effect on me.
The poems were very interesting and thought provoking. They captured the horrors and dismay reality of World War One. I have previously heard of Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen thanks to studying their poems during school. Have to say that out of the two I think Sassoon is the best - a lot of his poems were shocking in a good way and they had a profound effect on me.
October 18, 2020
I rate it so high because it defines the common spirit of humanity to,
even when experiencing the most dire hardships,
express itself in the creation of beauty.
even when experiencing the most dire hardships,
express itself in the creation of beauty.
February 23, 2021
I’ve rounded this one up to four stars as had I not just read a whole collection of Wilfred Owen this is what I would have rated it. This is a collection of poems from WW1. Heartbreaking and grim they are very moving. I found a few other poems that I liked but the book heavily features poems of Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon. I liked all of Sassoon’s work. A few poems were written by women but not many.
November 11, 2024
*4.5
Read this in honour of it being Armistice Day today
Read this in honour of it being Armistice Day today
March 23, 2023
There are some things out there too big or too terrible for words, or at least it can seem that way. Thankfully in such cases, we have poetry. With something so huge and overwhelming and utterly inconceivable, I really think poetry is our only weapon.
Sometimes, in order to try to pin down something of this magnitude, you can only focus on a very small part of it. A moment, a thought, a single incident; all you can do is try to pin it down and preserve it in amber. These poems are not great patriotic declarations -- though of course love of country is a theme in some. They are not answers, or debates, or angered speeches -- though of course hesitant answers are sometimes hinted at, and arguments are presented, and there is certainly, on occasion, anger. These are not the kinds of poems that governments can trot out to stir the people up and convince them that industrial death on this scale is ever worth it -- though of course they try. These poems are, quite simply, the desperate lamentations and utter childlike confusion of young men and some young women who watched the world end. What can you say about that? What can do it justice?
These poems are remarkable, because somehow they do. It is impossible for us to imagine what the war was like, to know in any way the sheer horror of it. But then, in a sentence here or some imagery there, or in the blank silence that follows the final line, it's possible to get a hint of it. It's possible to feel some of that horror, or desperation, or grief, or helplessness. It's fleeting but it's enough to make you thank god you never knew it as the poet did. We can know the facts, and the sequence of events, and the technical aspects, and the names of fronts and weapons and battles. But we can never know the war. This is a wonderful collection, because every so often, it lets you glimpse the carnage behind these facts; the war as it was, and not the sanitised version we've come to know on paper. There is what poetry can do, and this short little book is a fine example.
Sometimes, in order to try to pin down something of this magnitude, you can only focus on a very small part of it. A moment, a thought, a single incident; all you can do is try to pin it down and preserve it in amber. These poems are not great patriotic declarations -- though of course love of country is a theme in some. They are not answers, or debates, or angered speeches -- though of course hesitant answers are sometimes hinted at, and arguments are presented, and there is certainly, on occasion, anger. These are not the kinds of poems that governments can trot out to stir the people up and convince them that industrial death on this scale is ever worth it -- though of course they try. These poems are, quite simply, the desperate lamentations and utter childlike confusion of young men and some young women who watched the world end. What can you say about that? What can do it justice?
These poems are remarkable, because somehow they do. It is impossible for us to imagine what the war was like, to know in any way the sheer horror of it. But then, in a sentence here or some imagery there, or in the blank silence that follows the final line, it's possible to get a hint of it. It's possible to feel some of that horror, or desperation, or grief, or helplessness. It's fleeting but it's enough to make you thank god you never knew it as the poet did. We can know the facts, and the sequence of events, and the technical aspects, and the names of fronts and weapons and battles. But we can never know the war. This is a wonderful collection, because every so often, it lets you glimpse the carnage behind these facts; the war as it was, and not the sanitised version we've come to know on paper. There is what poetry can do, and this short little book is a fine example.
July 23, 2018
3.5 stars
I picked up this little collection of War Poetry when I visited the Imperial War Museum in Manchester last year. I wanted to read it around Remembrance Day, but forgot to bring it to uni with me. I've only just gotten round to reading it, but it was such a lovely and haunting read.
Inside this collection you will find an array of World War I poets, such as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Ivor Gurney, and so on. There's only two female poets, I think, which I don't know how I feel about. Yes, the war was predominantly men, but there were also women on the frontline (nurses, drivers, etc.). However, it's not something that will determine my rating, considering the context.
The poems were all hauntingly beautiful, and made you feel an abundance of emotions. Some were sarcastic, some were witty, some were brutal, and some were just downright sad. But they were a pleasure to read, and captured such a turbulent time in such beautiful writing and prose. I would definitely recommend this! I only rated it down for two reasons: 1) poetry is my favourite thing to read at times, and I sped through this because I wanted to finished it before I went away, and 2) some of the poems weren't that memorable (but a lot of them were, so half-and-half really).
I picked up this little collection of War Poetry when I visited the Imperial War Museum in Manchester last year. I wanted to read it around Remembrance Day, but forgot to bring it to uni with me. I've only just gotten round to reading it, but it was such a lovely and haunting read.
Inside this collection you will find an array of World War I poets, such as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, Ivor Gurney, and so on. There's only two female poets, I think, which I don't know how I feel about. Yes, the war was predominantly men, but there were also women on the frontline (nurses, drivers, etc.). However, it's not something that will determine my rating, considering the context.
The poems were all hauntingly beautiful, and made you feel an abundance of emotions. Some were sarcastic, some were witty, some were brutal, and some were just downright sad. But they were a pleasure to read, and captured such a turbulent time in such beautiful writing and prose. I would definitely recommend this! I only rated it down for two reasons: 1) poetry is my favourite thing to read at times, and I sped through this because I wanted to finished it before I went away, and 2) some of the poems weren't that memorable (but a lot of them were, so half-and-half really).
February 20, 2018
There is not much I can really say about this collection of poems, save for that it is numbingly beautiful and emotional and all-around great. Even if you are not a fan of poetry collections, or if you are not very familiar with the history behind WWI, or 'The Great War', as it came to be knwon, this book is a definite recommendation from me.
WWI was a period of not only the obvious terror of war, but this was a war of previously unknown suffering, of new pain, new fears. A war, that vibrates in after-shocks throughout history to this very day (no, this is not an exaggeration). And the poems within this collection manage to give us a glance of it all, it manages to give us a taste of the immense sorrows the people must have felt.
If I had to point out one single fault within this book, it would be that there are fewer authors than I'd personally like, and you'll definitely notice names repeating after a short while. But this, of course, is but a minor problem, that in no way got in the way of my (somewhat morbid) enjoyment of this book.
Definetly a recommendation from me, a must for all poetry and/or history fans, and something to try out even if you're not.
WWI was a period of not only the obvious terror of war, but this was a war of previously unknown suffering, of new pain, new fears. A war, that vibrates in after-shocks throughout history to this very day (no, this is not an exaggeration). And the poems within this collection manage to give us a glance of it all, it manages to give us a taste of the immense sorrows the people must have felt.
If I had to point out one single fault within this book, it would be that there are fewer authors than I'd personally like, and you'll definitely notice names repeating after a short while. But this, of course, is but a minor problem, that in no way got in the way of my (somewhat morbid) enjoyment of this book.
Definetly a recommendation from me, a must for all poetry and/or history fans, and something to try out even if you're not.
August 7, 2014
Wilfred Owens, Robert Graves and Siegfried Sassoon enlisted at the outbreak of WW1 and served as junior officers on the Western Front throughout the war (Owens was killed a month before the armistice). Graves and Sassoon went on to write memoirs and semi-autobiographical novels about their experiences giving graphic accounts of the carnage, horrors and futility of it all. Their poems written during the war are even more powerful, each one a vignette about endless shells, snipers bullets and gas, attacks against machine gun fire across barbed wire covered ground that achieved little apart from death and injury, the cold and vermin, decaying corpses and psychological trauma. Owens short poignant works are brutal, harrowing and full of horrific imagery; none more so than the poem about a gas attack that finishes with the lines:
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
- How sweet and honourable it is to die for one's country
The last part taken from Horace's poem glorifying war is turned around as a condemnation of war.
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
- How sweet and honourable it is to die for one's country
The last part taken from Horace's poem glorifying war is turned around as a condemnation of war.
May 12, 2012
A fabulous collection of poems from the Great War, for such a small little book this anthology is the opposite, a great entity. It casts a true, honest picture of what the War was really like on the front line, not what the people wanted to hear. Personally my favorite poet is Siegfried Sassoon, many of his classic and well known pieces of work in this book, however other famous names like Wilfred Owen and of course John Mcrae are also represented. As an enthusiast, I take great interest into World War 1 and its literature, but I really do recommend this book to absolutely anyone, for the meaning and potency behind each and everyone of these poems are inspirational and touching.
July 23, 2018
The Wilfred Owen pieces were m y favorite, but this collection is well organized in regards to the order and compilation. Poems written about the Great War have such reverence for the sacrifice of life and a reverence for nature, yet exposing the cruelty and horror of the genesis of modern warfare. I would read these poems on my commute to Central London, and often times had to stop before I even reached the center of town, as these poems were so raw and powerful. It is harder to read more than a few at a time, but it is worth the time.
(Also, it was interesting to see the transition from verse to free form poetry, and when the two were blended)
(Also, it was interesting to see the transition from verse to free form poetry, and when the two were blended)
August 2, 2012
I'm not a great fan of poetry and overall I could only rate this as OK, but there were some massive highlights which in general were the poems of Wilfred Owen. The stand outs were "Anthem for Doomed Youth" and "Dulce et Decorum est" (which is just gut wrenching in its vivid imagery of a mustard gas attack), plus "Greater Love" and "The Sentry". The collection also includes a lot of the work of Siegfried Sassoon. I must admit I found it very patchy, but I was moved immensely by "Suicide in the Trenches" and particularly by "Counter-Attack."
August 15, 2011
I'm usually one for poetry but really took to the war poems when I studied them during GCSE so when I saw this collection at the Imperial War Museum I thought I'd give them a read. I was not disappointed. These are an enlightening collection, the visual imagery is shocking, and really makes you understand the terrors that the men faced during trench warfare. A worthwhile addition to the book case!
February 9, 2018
I loved this book. It was extremely emotional and gave many unique, historical and insightful experiences into the overall atmosphere of WWI. It was truly horrific and this historic account of suffering, bravery and true pain were expressed so exquisitely. I read two poems a day and it truly gave me a unique perspective and reminded me of just how lucky I am to live in a place free of the great turmoil war.
Read
March 31, 2011this is not the most worthy collection of 1st world war poetry, but it is a handy size, and the poems were apparently chosen at random, with the only criteria being that they have to be in english, so you will in all probability find some real gems in here, and discover some writers that you were not aware of.
June 17, 2017
I purchased this book of poetry in the Flanders Field Museum Gift Shop on a school trip and I'm disappointed in myself that it took me over a decade to read this, because it is so hauntingly beautiful. It contains many famous poems of the Great War, such as In Flanders Field and In Memoriam and lesser known, but still beautiful poems.
May 10, 2015
A comprehensive introduction to First World War poetry, however, you feel that many of these are remembered for being 'war poems' rather than for being good poems. Still, a revealing look at the psychological shock of the realities of war on upper and upper middle class Englishmen.
December 12, 2023
The poetry was so interesting that the more I read it, the more I felt as if I was able to imagine how people felt during this time of difficulty. Would recommend to anyone who is looking to learn how people thought in the past.
August 8, 2011
A small book, but what content! Poetry of stunning imagery or war and death. Beautiful and startling.
November 6, 2013
Heartbreaking. How can so much beauty come from so much horror?
March 6, 2016
Lovely collection. Heartbreaking, of course, so don't read it all in one sitting! The beauty is worth the sadness--just make sure you have a nice pot of tea on hand.
May 21, 2020
A great collection that serves as a splendid intro to poetry of The Great War. Recommend as an introduction.
Read
August 25, 2022A war anthology which divulges the horrors of WWI.
I believe that if nationalism drives men to the battlefield then it is by all means a disease.
I found particularly harrowing two of the poems written by Siegfried Sassoon.
• Suicide in the Trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
• The Hero
"Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
I believe that if nationalism drives men to the battlefield then it is by all means a disease.
I found particularly harrowing two of the poems written by Siegfried Sassoon.
• Suicide in the Trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
• The Hero
"Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies That she would nourish all her days, no doubt. For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died, Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
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