Poems of the Great War Read online

  But with the best and

  meanest Englishmen

  I am one in crying, God save

  England, lest

  We lose what never slaves

  and cattle blessed.

  The ages made her that

  made us from dust:

  She is all we know and live

  by, and we trust

  She is good and must

  endure, loving her so:

  And as we love ourselves we

  hate her foe.

  —1915

  Lights Out

  Edward Thomas

  I have come to the borders

  of sleep

  The unfathomable deep

  Forest where all must lose

  Their way, however

  straight,

  Or winding, soon or late;

  They cannot choose.

  Many a road and track

  That, since the dawn’s first

  crack,

  Up to the forest brink,

  Deceived the travellers,

  Suddenly now blurs,

  And in they sink.

  Here love ends,

  Despair, ambition ends,

  All pleasure and all trouble,

  Although most sweet or

  bitter,

  Here ends in sleep that is

  sweeter

  Than tasks most noble.

  There is not any book

  Or face of dearest look

  That I would not turn from

  now

  To go into the unknown

  I must enter and leave alone

  I know not how.

  The tall forest towers;

  Its cloudy foliage lowers

  Ahead, shelf above shelf;

  Its silence I hear and obey

  That I may lose my way

  And myself.

  —1916

  The Owl

  Edward Thomas

  Downhill I came, hungry,

  and yet not starved;

  Cold, yet had heat within

  me that was proof

  Against the North wind;

  tired, yet so that rest

  Had seemed the sweetest

  thing under a roof.

  Then at the inn I had food,

  fire, and rest,

  Knowing how hungry, cold,

  and tired was I.

  All of the night was quite

  barred out except

  An owl’s cry, a most

  melancholy cry

  Shaken out long and clear

  upon the hill,

  No merry note, nor cause of

  merriment,

  But one telling me plain

  what I escaped

  And others could not, that

  night, as in I went.

  And salted was my food, and

  my repose,

  Salted and sobered, too, by

  the bird’s voice

  Speaking for all who lay

  under the stars,

  Soldiers and poor, unable to

  rejoice.

  —1917

  When First

  Edward Thomas

  When first I came here I

  had hope,

  Hope for I knew not what.

  Fast beat

  My heart at sight of the tall

  slope

  Of grass and yews, as my

  feet

  Only by scaling its steps of

  chalk

  Would see something no

  other hill

  Ever disclosed. And now I

  walk

  Down it the last time. Never

  will

  My heart beat so again at

  sight

  Of any hill although as fair

  And loftier. For infinite

  The change, late

  unperceived, this year,

  The twelfth, suddenly,

  shows me plain.

  Hope now, – not health, nor

  cheerfulness,

  Since they can come and go

  again,

  As often one brief hour

  witnesses, —

  Just hope has gone for ever.

  Perhaps

  I may love other hills yet

  more

  Than this: the future and

  the maps

  Hide something I was

  waiting for.

  One thing I know, that love

  with chance

  And use and time and

  necessity

  Will grow, and louder the

  heart’s dance

  At parting than at meeting

  be.

  —1917

  John McCrae

  (1872–1918)

  In Flanders Fields

  John McCrae

  In Flanders fields the

  poppies blow

  Between the crosses, row

  on row,

  That mark our place; and in

  the sky

  The larks, still bravely

  singing, fly

  Scarce heard amid 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.

  —1915

  Charles Hamilton Sorley

  (1895–1915)

  To Germany

  Charles Hamilton Sorley

  You are blind like us. Your

  hurt no man designed,

  And no man claimed the

  conquest of your land.

  But gropers both through

  fields of thought confined

  We stumble and we do not

  understand.

  You only saw your future

  bigly planned,

  And we, the tapering paths

  of our own mind,

  And in each other’s dearest

  ways we stand,

  And hiss and hate. And the

  blind fight the blind.

  When it is peace, then we

  may view again

  With new-won eyes each

  other’s truer form

  And wonder. Grown more

  loving-kind and warm

  We’ll grasp firm hands and

  laugh at the old pain,

  When it is peace. But until

  peace, the storm

  The darkness and the

  thunder and the rain.

  —1916

  When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead

  Charles Hamilton Sorley

  When you see millions of

  the mouthless dead

  Across your dreams in pale

  battalions go,

  Say not soft things as other

  men have said,

  That you’ll remember. For

  you need not so.

  Give them not praise. For,

  deaf, how should they

  know

  It is not curses heaped on

  each gashed head?

  Nor tears. Their blind eyes

  see not your tears flow.

  Nor honour. It is easy to be

  dead.

  Say only this, ‘They are

  dead.’ Then add thereto,

  ‘Yet many a better one has

  died before.’

  Then, scanning all the

  o’ercrowded mass, should

  you

  Perceive one face that you

  loved heretofore,


  It is a spook. None wears

  the face you knew.

  Great death has made all his

  for evermore.

  —1916

  Isaac Rosenberg

  (1890–1918)

  The Dead Heroes

  Isaac Rosenberg

  Flame out, you glorious

  skies,

  Welcome, our brave,

  Kiss their exultant eyes;

  Give what they gave.

  Flash, maile’d seraphin,

  Your burning spears;

  New days to outflame their

  dim

  Heroic years.

  Thrills their baptismal

  tread

  The bright proud air;

  The embattled plumes

  outspread

  Burn upwards there.

  Flame out, flame out, O

  Song!

  Star ring to star,

  Strong as our hurt is strong

  Our children are.

  Their blood is England’s

  heart;

  By their dead hands

  It is their noble part

  That England stands.

  England – Time gave them

  thee;

  They gave back this

  To win Eternity

  And claim God’s kiss.

  —1914

  Marching

  (as seen from the left file)

  Isaac Rosenberg

  My eyes catch ruddy necks

  Sturdily pressed back—

  All a red brick moving glint,

  Like flaming pendulums,

  hands

  Swing across the khaki—

  Mustard coloured khaki—

  To the automatic feet.

  We husband the ancient

  glory

  In these bared necks and

  hands.

  Not broke is the forge of

  Mars;

  But a subtler brain beats

  iron

  To shoe the hoofs of death,

  (Who paws dynamic air

  now).

  Blind fingers loose an iron

  cloud

  To rain immortal darkness

  On strong eyes.

  —1915

  From France

  Isaac Rosenberg

  The spirit drank the Café

  lights;

  All the hot life that glittered

  there,

  And heard men say to

  women gay,

  ‘Life is not Life in France’.

  The spirit dreams of Café

  lights,

  And golden faces and soft

  tones,

  And hears men groan to

  broken men,

  ‘This is not Life in France’.

  Heaped stones and a

  charred signboard shows

  With grass between and

  dead folk under,

  And some birds sing, while

  the spirit takes wing.

  And this is life in France.

  —1916

  Returning, We Hear the Larks

  Isaac Rosenberg

  Sombre the night is.

  And though we have our

  lives, we know

  What sinister threat lurks

  there.

  Dragging these anguished

  limbs, we only know

  This poison-blasted track

  opens on our camp –

  On a little safe sleep.

  But hark! joy—joy – strange

  joy.

  Lo! heights of night ringing

  with unseen larks.

  Music showering on our

  upturned list’ning faces.

  Death could drop from the

  dark

  As easily as song –

  But song only dropped,

  Like a blind man’s dreams

  on the sand

  By dangerous tides,

  Like a girl’s dark hair for she

  dreams no ruin lies there,

  Or her kisses where a

  serpent hides.

  —1917

  Richard Aldington

  (1882–1962)

  Bombardment

  Richard Aldington

  Four days the earth was

  rent and torn

  By bursting steel,

  The houses fell about us;

  Three nights we dared not

  sleep,

  Sweating, and listening for

  the imminent crash

  Which meant our death.

  The fourth night every man,

  Nerve-tortured, racked to

  exhaustion,

  Slept, muttering and

  twitching,

  While the shells crashed

  overhead.

  The fifth day there came a

  hush;

  We left our holes

  And looked above the

  wreckage of the earth

  To where the white clouds

  moved in silent lines

  Across the untroubled blue.

  —1915

  Wilfred Owen

  (1893–1918)

  Anthem for Doomed Youth

  Wilfred Owen

  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 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.

  —1917

  Greater Love

  Wilfred Owen

  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 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 none now

  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.

  —1918

  Mental Cases

  Wilfred Owen

  Who are these? Why sit

  they here in twiligh
t?

  Wherefore rock they,

  purgatorial shadows,

  Drooping tongues from

  jaws that slob their relish,

  Baring teeth that leer like

  skulls’ teeth wicked?

  Stroke on stroke of pain, -

  but what slow panic,

  Gouged these chasms round

  their fretted sockets?

  Ever from their hair and

  through their hand palms

  Misery swelters. Surely we

  have perished

  Sleeping, and walk hell; but

  who these hellish?

  —These are men whose

  minds the Dead have

  ravished.

  Memory fingers in their

  hair of murders.

  Multitudinous murders

  they once witnessed.

  Wading sloughs of flesh

  these helpless wander,

  Treading blood from lungs

  that had loved laughter.

  Always they must see these

  things and hear them,

  Batter of guns and shatter

  of flying muscles,

  Carnage incomparable and

  human squander

  Rucked too thick for these

  men’s extrication.

  Therefore still their eyeballs

  shrink tormented

  Back into their brains,

  because on their sense

  Sunlight seems a blood-

  smear; night comes

  blood-black;

  Dawn breaks open like a

  wound that bleeds afresh

  —Thus their heads wear

  this hilarious, hideous,

  Awful falseness of set-

  smiling corpses.

  —Thus their hands are

  plucking at each other;

  Picking at the rope-knouts

  of their scourging;

  Snatching after us who

  smote them, brother,

  Pawing us who dealt them

  war and madness.

  —1918

  Spring Offensive

  Wilfred Owen

  Halted against the shade of

  a last hill,

  They fed, and, lying easy,

  were at ease

  And, finding comfortable

  chests and knees

  Carelessly slept. But many

  there stood still

  To face the stark, blank sky