And life’s half-promising, and both their riling. The Epilogue With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the mother “Tim died smiling.” (S.I.W. = Self-inflicted Wound) The End (Wilfred Owen) After the blast of lightning from the east, The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot Throne; After the drums of time have rolled and ceased, And by the bronze west long retreat is blown, Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage?- Or fill these void veins full again with youth, And wash, with an immortal water, Age? When I do ask white Age he saith not so:
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole. To-night he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come? Dreamers (Siegfried Sassoon 1886 - 1967) Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops 'retire' When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud. Remorse (Siegfried Sassoon) Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows
Of acquiescence in the creeping moss. But on a sudden fierce destruction came Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across, She rose, dead, into never-dying fame. White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave Sleep round her. Desolately glorified, She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone, Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave. The Pity of It (Laurence Binyon) I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar From rail-track and from highway, and I heard
Holding the flimsy message in his hand While through your heart the fiery question thrilled "Wounded or killed, which, which?"--and it was "Killed--" And in a kind of trance have read it, numb But conscious that the dreaded hour was come, No dream this dream wherewith your blood was chilled-- Oh brothers in calamity, unknown Companions in the order of black loss, Lift up your hearts, for your are not alone, And let our sombre hosts together bring Their sorrows to the shadow of the Cross And learn the fellowship of suffering. War and Peace (Edgell Rickword 1898 - 1982) In sodden trenches I have heard men speak, Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things;