War Poetry

Modern History Sourcebook World state of war I Poetry Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)How to Die tie beam to Collected Poems At Columbia Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)Anthem for a Doomed early days crosstie to Collected Poems At Toronto Wilfred Owen Dulce et Decorum Est Herbert Read (1893-1968) The Happy Warrior W. N. Hodgson (1893-1916) Before Action Wilfred Gibson (1878-1962) Back Link to Collected Poems At Columbia Philip Larkin (1922-1985) MCMXIV Link to Poems At Hooked. net Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) How to Die Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns.The dying pass shifts his head To watch the glory that returns He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame Radiance reflected in his look, And on his lips a whispered name. Youd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces uninfected as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But theyve been taught the way to d o it Like Christian soldiers not with haste And shiver groans just now passing through it With due regard for decent taste. Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Anthem for a 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 splosh out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of squ wholly shells And bugles c wholeing for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their look Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls brows shall be their pall Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And distributively slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haun bathroomg flares we turn ed our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. many an(prenominal) had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame all blind Drunk with fatigue deaf make up to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas GAS Quick, boys An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time But soul still was yelling out and stumbling And floundring like a man in fire or spread . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,As under I 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 cubic yard Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devils 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 torrid for some desperate glory, The old lie Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori. Herbert Read (1893-1968) The Happy Warrior His wild heart beat generation with painful sobs, His strind hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parchd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him shot And stab again A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he W. N. Hodgson (1893-1916) Before Action By all the glories of the day And the nerveless evenings benison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was through with(p), By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received,By all the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of mans hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of wanton years, And every sad and lovely thing By the romantic ages stored With high en deavor that was his, By all his mad catastrophes Make me a man, O Lord. I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday s backchat Must speculate goodbye to all of this By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord. Wilfred Gibson (1878-1962) BackThey ask me where Ive been, And what Ive done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasnt I, But someone just like me, Who went crossways the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands Though I must indorse the blame, Because he bore my name. Philip Larkin (1922-1985) MCMXIV Those long uneven lines Standing as patiently As if they were stretched outside The watermelon-shaped or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun On moustached archaic faces Grinning as if it were all An August Bank vacation lark And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns,An d dark-clothed children at play Called after kings and queens, The tin advertisements For cocoa and twist, and the pubs Wide open all day And the countryside not caring The place-names all hazed over With flush grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheats restless silence The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The spread out behind limousines Never such honor, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a wordthe men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer Never such innocence again.