War Poetry

Modern History Sourcebook World War I verse line Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)How to Die Link to Collected Poems At Columbia Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)Anthem for a Doomed young person Link to Collected Poems At Toronto Wilfred Owen Dulce et decorousness Est Herbert Read (1893-1968) The Happy Warrior W. N. Hodgson (1893-1916) Before body process 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 soldier 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 eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. Youd think, to ar balance slightly people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces albu manpower as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. just now theyve b een taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers non with haste And shuddering groans just now passing through it With due require 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 end patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor any role of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells And bugles c all in all tolding 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 snuff itor of girls brows shall be their pall Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And each 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 cuss 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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas turgidity Quick, boys An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time But psyche still was yelling out and stumbling And floundring like a military man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and stocky 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 pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devils sore 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 inn ocent tongues, My friend, you would non tell with such high zest To children ardent for some direful glory, The old lie Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori. Herbert Read (1893-1968) The Happy Warrior His wild heart and soul beats with painful sobs, His strind hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws take a hot parchd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. flaming(a) saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him dig out 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 cool evenings benison, By that last sunlightset tweak that lay Upon the hills where day was do, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received,By all the geezerhood that I have lived score me a solider, Lord. By all of mans hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded years, And every sad and lovely thing By the romantic ages stored With high endeavor that was his, By all his mad catastrophes Make me a man, O Lord. I, that on my familiar hill Saw with undiscerning eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Must say 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 across the sea And with my head and hands Killed men in foreign lands Though I must bear 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 Oval or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun On moustached archaic faces smiling as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark And the shut down shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns,And dark-clot hed children at play Called after(prenominal) 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 flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines on a lower floor wheats restless silence The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The clean behind limousines Never such innocence, 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.