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war-monger
...we'll splatter our verbal napalm on the economic warriors of the wall streets of the world till their bonds are burned and clobbering men on the head with the truth will be the folly of the new special forces JOIN ME PLEASE as i unleash on the world a multi-million megatonic fury: LOVE
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Give somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke
The Ash and the Oak
When men discovered freedom first The fighting was on foot They were encouraged by their thirst And promises of loot, And when it feathered and bow boomed Their virtue was a root.
O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And green grows the grass on the infantry!
At Malplaquet and Waterloo They were polite and proud, They primed their guns with billets-doux And, as they fired, bowed. At Appomattox too, it seems Some things were understood.
O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And green grows the grass on the infantry!
But at Verdun and at Bastogne There was a great recoil, The blood was bitter to the bone, The trigger to the soul, And death was nothing if not dull, A hero was a fool.
O the ash and the oak and the willow tree And that's an end of the infantry.
Louis Simpson
In Flanders Fields
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 among 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.
John McCrae
Greater Love
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 now none 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.
Wilfred Owen
In Memoriam (Easter, 1915)
The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood This Eastertide call into the mind of men, Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should Have gathered them and will do never again.
Edward Thomas
Lament
The young men of the world Are condemned to death. They have been called up to die For the crime of their fathers.
The young men of the world, The growing, the ripening fruit, Have been torn from their branches, While the memory of the blossom Is sweet in women's hearts; They have been cast for a cruel purpose Into the mashing-press and furnace.
The young men of the world Look into each other's eyes, And read there the same words: Not yet! Not yet! But soon perhaps, and perhaps certain.
The young men of the world No longer possess the road: The road possesses them. They no longer inherit the earth: The earth inherits them. They are no longer the masters of fire: Fire is their master; They serve him, he destroys them. They no longer rule the waters: The genius of the seas Has invented a new monster, And they fly from its teeth. They no longer breathe freely: The genius of the air Has contrived a new terror That rends them into pieces.
The young men of the world Are encompassed with death He is all about them In a circle of fore and bayonets.
Weep, weep, o women, And old men break your hearts.
F.S. Flint
A Moment's Interlude
One night I wandered alone from my comrades' huts; The grasshoppers chirped softly In the warm misty evening; Bracken fronds beckoned from the darkness With exquisite frail green fingers; The tree-gods muttered affectionately about me And from the distance came the grumble of a kindly train.
I was so happy to be alone So full of love for the great speechless earth, That I could have laid my cheek in the grasses And caressed with my lips the hard sinewy body Of Earth, the cherishing mistress of bitter lovers.
Richard Aldington
Night Flying
Aloft on footless levels of the night A pilot thunders through the desolate stars, Sees in the misty deep a fainting light Of far-off cities cast in coal-dark bars Of shore and soundless sea; and he is lone, Snatched from the universe like one forbid, Or like a ghost caught from the slay and thrown Out on the void, nor God cared what he did.
Till from these unlinked whisperers that pain The buried earth he swings his boat away, Even as a lonely thinker who hath run The gamut of greatlore, and found the Inane, Then stumbles at midnight upon a sun And all the honor of a mighty day.
Frederick V. Branford
Lament
We who are left, how shall we look again Happily on the sun or feel the rain Without remembering how they who went Ungrudgingly and spent Their lives for us loved, too, the sun and rain?
A bird among the rain-wet lilac sings-- But we, how shall we turn to little things And listen to the birds and winds and streams Made holy by their dreams, Nor feel the heart-break in the heart of things?
Gonnehem
Of Gonnehem it shall be said That we arrived there late and worn With marching, and were given a bed Of lovely straw. And then at morn On rising from deep sleep saw dangle-- Shining in the sun to spangle, The all-blue heaven--branchloads of red Bright cherries which we bought to eat, Dew-wet, dawn-cool, and sunny-sweet. There was a tiny court-yard too, Wherein one shady walnut grew. Unruffled peace the farm encloses-- I wonder if beneath that tree, The meditating hens still be. Are the white walls now gay with roses? Does the small fountain yet run free? I wonder if the dog still dozes.... Some day we must go back to see.
F.W. Harvey
To the Devil on His Appalling Decadence
Satan, old friend and enemy of man; Lord of the shadows and sins whereby We wretches glimpse the sun in Virtue's sky Guessing at last the wideness of His plan Who fashioned kid and tiger, slayer and slain, The paradox of evil, and the pain Which threshes joy as with a winnowing fan:
Satan, of your old custom `twas at least To throw an apple to the soul you caught Robbing your orchard. You, before you wrought Damnation due and marked it with the beast, Before its eyes were e'en disposed to dangle Fruitage delicious. And you would not mangle Nor maul the body of the dear deceased.
But you were called familiarly "Old Nick"-- The Devil, yet a gentleman you know! Relentless -- true, yet courteous to a foe. Man's soul your traffic was. You would not kick His bloody entrails flying in the air. Oh, "Krieg ist Krieg," we know, and "C'est la guerre!" But Satan, don't you feel a trifle sick?
F.W. Harvey
Two Julys
I was so vague in 1914; tossed Upon too many purposes, and worthless; Moody; to this world or the other lost, Essential nowhere; without calm and mirthless. And now I have gained for many ends, See my straight road stretch out so white, so slender, That happy road, the road of all my friends, Made glad with peace, and holy with surrender.
Proud, proud we fling to the winds of Time our token, And in our need there wells in us the power, Given England's swords to keep her honour clean. Which they shall be which pierce, and which be broken, We know not, but we know that every hour We must shine brighter, take an edge more keen.
Charles John Beech Masefield
The Dead Soldier
Thy dear brown eyes which were as depths where truth Lay bowered with frolic joy, but yesterday Shone with the fire of thy so guileless youth, Now ruthless death has dimmed and closed for aye.
Those sweet red lips, that never knew the stain Of angry words or harsh, or thoughts unclean, Have sung their last gay song. Never again Shall I the harvest of their laughter glean.
The goodly harvest of they laughing mouth Is garnered in; and lo! the golden grain Of all thy generous thoughts, which knew no drouth Of meanness, and thy tender words remain
Stored in my heart; and though I may not see Thy peerless form nor hear thy voice again, The memory lives of what thou wast to me. We knew great love....We have not lived in vain.
Sydney Oswald
Præmaturi
When men are old, and their friends die, They are not so sad, Because their love is running slow, And cannot spring from the wound with so sharp a pain; And they are happy with many memories, And only a little while to be alone.
But we are young, and our friends are dead Suddenly, and our quick love is torn in two; So our memories are only hopes that came to nothing. We are left along like old men; we should be dead --But there are years and years in which we shall still be young.
Margaret Postgate
From Courage
I was afraid of Fear, Not of the foe; And when I thought that those I hold most dear My craven soul would know And turn away ashamed, who praised before, Ashamed and deep distressed to find it so, I was afraid the more.
Lo, when I joined the fight, And bared my breast To all the darts of that wild, hellish night, I, only, stood the test, For Fear, which I had feared, deserved then, And forward blithely at the foe I prest King of myself again....
J.E. Stewart
The Heart-Cry
She turned the page of wounds and death With trembling fingers. In a breath The gladness of her life became Naught but a memory and a name.
Farewell! Farewell! I might not share The perils it was yours to dare. Dauntless you fronted death: for me Rests to face life as fearlessly.
F.W. Bourdillon
Because You Are Dead
Because you are dead so many words they say. If you could hear them, how they crowd, they crowd! "Dying for England--but you must be proud." And "Greater Love" -- "Honor" -- "A debt to pay." And "Cry, dear!" some one says: and some one "Pray!" What do they mean, their words that throng so loud?
This, dearest, that for us there will not be Laughter and joy of living dwindling cold; Ashes of words that dropped in flame first told; Stale tenderness made foolish suddenly. This only, heart's desire, for you and me, We who lived love will not see love grown old.
We, who had morning-time and crest o' the wave Will have no twilight chill after the gleam. Nor any ebb-tide with a sluggish stream; No, nor clutch wisdom as a thing to save. We keep forever--and yet they call me brave!-- Untouched, unbroken, unrebuilt, our dream.
Kathleen Montgomery Wallace
Untitled
I saw a man this morning Who did not wish to die: I ask, and cannot answer, If otherwise wish I.
Fair broke the day this morning Against the Dardanelles; The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks Were cold as cold sea-shells.
But other shells are waiting Across the Aegean Sea, Shrapnel and high explosive, Shells and hells for me.
O hell of ships and cities, Hell of men like me, Fatal second Helen, Why must I follow thee?
Achilles came to Troyland And I to Chersonese: He turned from wrath to battle, And I from three days' peace.
Was it so hard, Achilles, So very hard to die? Thou knowest and I know not-- So much the happier am I.
I will go back this morning From Imbros over the sea; Stand in the trench, Achilles, Flame-capped, and shout for me.
Patrick Shaw-Stewart
My Company
I
You became In many acts and quiet observances A body and soul, entire.
I cannot tell What time your life became mine: Perhaps when one summer night We halted on the roadside In the starlight only, And you sang your sad home-songs, Dirges which I standing outside you Coldly condemned.
Perhaps, one night, descending cold, When rum was mighty acceptable, And my doling gave birth to sensual gratitude.
And then our fights: we've fought together Compact, unanimous; And I have felt the pride of leadership.
In many acts and quiet observances You absorbed me: Until one day I stood eminent And I saw you gathered round me, Uplooking, And about you a radiance that seemed to beat With variant glow and to give Grace to our unity.
But, God! I know that I'll stand Someday in the loneliest wilderness, Someday my heart will cry For the soul that has been, but that now Is scatter'd with the winds, Deceased and devoid.
I know that I'll wander with a cry: "O beautiful men, O men I loved, O whither are you gone, my company?'
2
My men go wearily With their monstrous burdens. They bear wooden planks And iron sheeting Through the area of death.
When a flare curves through the sky They rest immobile.
Then on again, Sweating and blaspheming-- "Oh, bloody Christ!"
My men, my modern Christs, Your bloody agony confronts the world.
3
A man of mine lies on the wire. It is death to fetch his soulless corpse.
A man of mine lies on the wire; And he will rot And first his lips The worms will eat.
It is not thus I would have him kiss'd, But with the warm passionate lips Of his comrade here.
4
I can assume A giant attitude and godlike mood, And then detachedly regard All riots, conflicts and collisions.
The men I've lived with Lurch suddenly into a far perspective; They distantly gather like a dark cloud of birds In the autumn sky.
Urged by some unanimous Volition or fate, Clouds clash in opposition; The sky quivers, the dead descend; Earth yawns.
They are all of one species.
From my giant attitude, In a godlike mood, I laugh till space is filled With hellish merriment.
Then again I resume My human docility, Bow my head And share their doom.
Herbert Read
In Memoriam
Private D. Sutherland killed in action in the German trench, May 16th, 1916, and the others who died.
So you were David's father, And he was your only son, And the new-cut peats are rotting And the work is left undone, Because of an old man weeping, Just an old man in pain, For David, his son David, That will not come again.
Oh, the letters he wrote you, And I can see them still, Not a word of the fighting But just the sheep on the hill and how you should get the crops in Ere the year get stormier, And the Bosches have got his body, And I was his officer.
You were only David's father, But I had fifty sons When we went up in the evening Under the arch of the guns, And we came back at twilight-- O God! I heard them call To me for help and pity That could not help at all.
Oh, never will I forget you, My men that trusted me, More my sons than your fathers', For they could only see The little helpless babies And the young men in their pride. They could not see you dying, And hold you while you died.
Happy and young and gallant, They saw their first-born go, But not the strong limbs broken And the beautiful men brought low, The piteous writhing bodies, They screamed, "Don't leave me, sir," For they were only your fathers But I was your officer.
E.A. Mackintosh
Here Dead We Lie
Here dead we lie because we did not choose To live and shame the land from which we sprung. Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose; But young men think it is, and we were young.
A.E. Housman
From How Shall we Rise to Greet the Dawn?
Continually they cackle thus, Those venerable birds, Crying, "Those whom the Gods love Die young" Or something of that sort.
Osbert Sitwell
Sonnet of a Son
Because I am young, therefore I must be killed; Because I am strong, so must my strength be maimed; Because I love life (thus it is willed) The joy of life from me a forfeit's claimed. If I were old or weak, if foul disease Had robbed me of all love of living--then Life would be mine to use as I might please; Such the all-wise arbitraments of men! Poor mad mankind! that like some Herod calls For one wide holocaust of youth and strength! Bitter your wakening when the curtain falls Upon your drunken drama, and at length With vision uninflamed you then behold A world of sick and halt and weak and old.
Eliot Crawshay-Williams
Fulfillment
Was there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine. Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth, Lined by the wind, burned by the sun; Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth, As whose children we are brethren: one.
And any moment may descend hot death To shatter limbs! Pulp, tear, blast Beloved soldiers who love rough, life and breath Not less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony, Oped mouth gushing, fallen head, Lessening pressure of a hand, shrunk, clammed and stony! O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her. Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine. O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier, All, all my joy, my grief, my love, are thine.
Robert Nichols
A Kiss
She kissed me when she said good-bye-- A child's kiss, neither bold nor shy.
We had met but a few short summer hours; Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers,
Sports and people; had rambled through A casual catchy song or two,
And walked with arms linked to the car By the light of a single misty star.
(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.)
And so we turned to say good-bye; But somehow or other, I don't know why,
--Perhaps `t was the feel of the khaki coat (She'd a brother in Flanders then) that smote
Her heart with a sudden tenderness Which issued in that swift caress--
Somehow, to her, at any rate A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate;
And so she lifted her dewey face And kissed me--but without a trace
Of passion,--and we said good-bye... A child's kiss,...neither bold nor shy.
My friend, I like you--it seemed to say-- Here's to our meeting again some day! Some happier day... Goodbye.
Bernard Freeman Trotter
Gervais(Killed at the Dardanelles)
Bees hummed and rooks called hoarsely outside the quiet room Where by an open window Gervais, the restless boy, Fretting the while for cricket, read of Patroclos' doom And flower of youth a-dying by far-off windy Troy.
Do the old tales, half-remembered, come back to haunt him now Who leaving his glad school-days and putting boyhood by Joined England's bitter Iliad? Greek beauty on the brow That frowns with dying wonder up to Hissarlik's sky!
Margaret Adelaide Wilson
The Wind on the Downs
I like to think of you as brown and tall, As strong and living as you used to be, In khaki tunic, Sam Brown belt and all, And standing there and laughing down at me. Because they tell me, dear, that you are dead, Because I can no longer see your face, You have not died, it is not true, instead You seek adventure in some other place. That you are round me, I believe; I hear you laughing as you used to do, Yet loving all the things I think of you; And knowing you are happy, should I grieve? You follow and are watchful where I go; How should you leave me, having loved me so?
We walked along the tow-path, you and I, Beside the sluggish-moving, still canal; It seemed impossible that you should die; I think of you the same and always shall. We thought of many things and spoke of few, And life lay all uncertainly before, And now I walk alone and think of you, And wonder what new kingdoms you explore. Over the railway line, across the grass, While up above the golden wings are spread, Flying, ever flying overhead, Here still I see your khaki figure pass, And when I leave the meadow, almost wait That you should open first the wooden gate.
Marian Allen
`Now That You Too'
Now that you too must shortly go the way Which in these bloodshot years uncounted men Have gone in vanishing armies day by day, And in their numbers will not come again: I must not strain the moments of our meeting Striving for each look, each accent, not to miss, Or question of our parting and our greeting, Is this the last of all? is this--or this?
Last sight of all it may be with these eyes, Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears, Even serving love, are our mortalities, And cling to what they own in mortal fears:-- But oh, let end what will, I hold you fast By immortal love, which has no first or last.
Elanor Farjeon
Last Leave(1918)
Let us forget tomorrow! For tonight At least, with curtains drawn, and driftwood piled On our own hearthstone, we may rest, and see The firelight flickering on familiar walls. (How the blue flames leap when an ember falls!) Peace, and content, and soul-security-- These are within. Without, the waste is wild With storm-clouds sweeping by in furious flight, And ceaseless beating of autumnal rain Upon our window pane.
The dusk grows deeper now, the flames are low: We do not heed the shadows, you and I, Nor fear the grey wings of encroaching gloom, So softly they enfold us. One last gleam Flashes and flits, elusive as a dream, And then dies out upon the darkened room. So, even so, our earthly fires must die; Yet, in our hearts, love's flame shall leap and glow When this dear night, with all it means to me, Is but a memory!
Eileen Newton
The Farmer Remembers the Somme
Will they never fade or pass-- The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming In file through the foul morass, And the grey flood-water lipping the reeds and grass, And the steel wings drumming?
The hills are bright in the sun: There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places; When work for the day is done There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun On the old folks' faces.
I have returned to these; The farm, and kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing; But all that my mind sees Is a quaking bog in a mist--stark, snapped trees, And the dark Somme flowing.
High Wood
Ladies and gentlemen, this is High Wood, Called by the French, Bois des Fourneaux, The famous spot which in Nineteen-Sixteen, July, August and September was the scene Of long and bitterly contested strife, By reason of its High commanding site. Observe the effect of shell-fire in the trees Standing and fallen; here is wire; this trench For months inhabited, twelve times changed hands; (They soon fall in), used later as a grave. It has been said on good authority That in the fighting for this patch of wood Were killed somewhere above eight thousand men, Of whom the greater part were buried here, This mound on which you stand being... Madame, please, You are requested kindly not to touch Or take away the Company's property As souvenirs; you'll find we have on sale A large variety, all guaranteed. As I was saying, all is as it was, This is an unknown British officer, The tunic having lately rotted off. Please follow me--this way... the path, sir, please, The ground which was secured at great expense The Company keeps absolutely untouched, And in that dug-out (genuine) we provide Refreshments at a reasonable rate. You are requested not to leave about Paper, or ginger-beer bottles, or orange-peel, There are waste-paper baskets at the gate.
Philip Johnstone, 1918
The Son
I found the letter in a cardboard box, Unfamous history. I read the words. The ink was frail and brown, the paper dry After so many years of being kept. The letter was a soldier's, from the front-- Conveyed his love and disappointed hope Of getting leave. It's cancelled now, he wrote. My luck is at the bottom of the sea.
Outside the sun was hot; the world looked bright; I heard a radio, and someone laughed. I did not sing, or laugh, or love the sun, Within the quiet room I thought of him, My father killed, and all the other men, Whose luck was at the bottom of the sea.
A Confession of Faith
Who would remember me were I to die, Remember with a pang and yet no pain; Remember as a friend, and feel good-bye Said at each memory as it wakes again?
I would not that a single heart should ache-- That some dear heart will ache is my one grief. Friends, if I have them, I would fondly take With me that best of gifts, a friend's belief.
I have believed, and for my faith reaped tares; Believed again, and, losing, was content; A heart perchance touched blindly, unawares, Rewards with friendship faith thus freely spent.
Bury the body--it has served its ends; Mark not the spot, but "On Gallipoli," Let it be said, "he died." Oh, Hearts of Friends, If I am worth it, keep my memory.
James Sprent
Photograph
Sometimes in the homes of the elderly, Among the shabby, cherished possessions You will find a framed photograph Of a young man in a quaint uniform.
Slouch-hatted, posing with a full gaze. `My brother Jim. He went to the War...' And something in the aged voice conveys The unspoken `and didn't come home.'
One sees a troopship thronged at the wharf; Jim's parents being cheerful, hugging their boy; Younger brothers vowing to follow soon; A little sister not understanding.
Tumultuous months follow, with excited Gatherings to hear Jim's letters read aloud, Until an official telegram Makes something die in all of them.
Yet life goes on. The family Faces the long future, strife, Depression, Accident, illness, another war, The casualty lists of the commonplace.
And Jim has acquired an aura Forever tragic and beautiful, Growing not old as those who remain Grow old...Till gradually
The minds wherein he is enshrined As son, brother, neighbour, friend, grow fewer. Those brief, sliding minutes on the wharf Have become sixty years.
Now, in a musty room somewhere, An old person makes a cup of tea And a not-yet-anonymous soldier Stares out of the photograph.
Peter Kocan
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