"How to Die" Siegfried Sassoon 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. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as ch
alk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shudd
ering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. "Anthem for a Doomed Youth" Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who di
e as cattle? --Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for the
m from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from s
ad 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 pall
or of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "Dulce et Decorum E
st " Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed 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! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of
fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Di
m, 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 pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writ
hing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lun
gs, 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 childre
n ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. "The Happy Warrior" Herbert Read His wild heart beats with painf
ul sobs, His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek.
Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him stab And stab again A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he... "Before
Action" W.N.Hodgson By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's benison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was do
ne, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of man's hope
s 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 uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Th
y 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 s
hall miss, Help me to die, O Lord. "Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it
wasn't 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, Be
cause he bore my name. "MCMXIV" Philip Larkin 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 Grinning as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Estab
lished names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And dark-clothed children at play Called after kings and queens, The tin advertisements F
or 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 S
hadowing Domesday lines Under wheats' restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; N
ever such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Las
ting a little while longer: Never such innocence again. "How to Die" Siegfried Sassoon Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the crater
s morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightn
ess breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go W
est with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do i
t Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. "Anthem for a 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 from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choi
rs 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 silent minds, And each
slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "Dulce et Decorum Est " Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags,
we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had l
ost 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! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumb
ling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . 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 pace Behind the w
agon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jo
lt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My f
riend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. "The Hap
py Warrior" Herbert Read His wild heart beats with painful sobs, His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue
, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him stab And stab again A well-killed
Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he... "Before Action" W.N.Hodgson By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's benison, By that las
t sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was done, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I h
ave lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of man's 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 fami
liar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his noonday sword Mus
t say goodbye to all of this;-- By all delights that I shall miss, Help me to die, O Lord. "Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where I've been, And wh
at I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't 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. "MCMXIV" Philip Larkin 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 Grinning as if it were all An August B
ank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And 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-n
ames all hazed over With flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheats' restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With
tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men
Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again. "How to Die" Siegfried Sassoon 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.
You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tomb
s and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it
With due regard for decent taste. "Anthem for a Doomed Youth" Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? --Only the monstrous ange
r of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter 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 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 silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "Dulce et Decorum Est " Wilfred Owen Bent double, like ol
d beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our dist
ant 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! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets j
ust in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick g
reen 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 i
n 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, li
ke a devil's 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 c
ud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The
old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. "The Happy Warrior" Herbert Read His wild heart beats with painful sobs, His strin'd hands clench an i
ce-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapel
ess jacket. I saw him stab And stab again A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he... "Before Action" W.N.Hodgson By all the glories
of the day And the cool evening's benison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was done, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And
blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of man's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poet
s 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 uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets spill Their fresh and sangu
ine 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. "
Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't I, But someone just like me, Wh
o 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. "MCMXIV" Philip
Larkin 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 moustac
hed archaic faces Grinning as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The far
things and sovereigns, And 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 flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheats'
restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or s
ince, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such
innocence again. "How to Die" Siegfried Sassoon Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier s
hifts his head To watch the glory that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflec
ted in his eyes, And on his lips a whispered name. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen
faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with
haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. "Anthem for a Doomed Youth" Wilfred Owen What passing-bell
s 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 from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calli
ng 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 silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "
Dulce et Decorum Est " Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed 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-s
hod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even 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 someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fir
e or lime . . . 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 sig
ht, 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 t
he white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the f
roth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such hi
gh zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. "The Happy Warrior" Herbert Read His wild hear
t beats with painful sobs, His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously.
He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him stab And stab again A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This
is he... "Before Action" W.N.Hodgson By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's benison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hill
s where day was done, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By
all of man's 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 uncomprehending ey
es 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. "Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I
reply Who know it wasn't 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. "MCMXIV" Philip Larkin Those long uneven lines Standing as patiently As if they were stretched outside The Ov
al or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun On moustached archaic faces Grinning as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops,
the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And dark-clothed children at play Called after kings and queens, The ti
n 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 gra
sses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheats' restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust be
hind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousand
s of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again. "How to Die" Siegfried Sassoon Dark clouds are smouldering into red Whi
le 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. You'd think, to hear some people talk,
That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taug
ht the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but passing through it With due regard for decent taste. "A
nthem for a Doomed Youth" Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? --Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rif
les' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shr
ill, 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 b
oys, 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 sile
nt minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "Dulce et Decorum Est " Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, co
ughing like hags, we cursed 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, outstrippe
d Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yel
ling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under I green sea, I sa
w 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 devil's 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 innocen
t tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro pat
ria mori. "The Happy Warrior" Herbert Read His wild heart beats with painful sobs, His strin'd hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a
hot parch'd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbles down his shapeless jacket. I saw him stab And stab ag
ain A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he... "Before Action" W.N.Hodgson By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's be
nison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was done, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all
the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of man's hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The laughter of unclouded year
s, 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 uncomprehending 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. "Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where
I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't 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. "MCMXIV" Philip Larkin Those long uneven lines Standi
ng as patiently As if they were stretched outside The Oval or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun On moustached archaic faces Grinning as if it we
re all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And dark-clothe
d 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 flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheats' restless silence; The differently-dres
sed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Withou
t a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again. "How to Die" Siegfri
ed Sassoon Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns. The dying soldier shifts his head To watch the glory t
hat 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. You'd think, to hear some people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sullen faces white as chalk, Hankering fo
r wreaths and tombs and hearses. But they've been taught the way to do it Like Christian soldiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; but pa
ssing through it With due regard for decent taste. "Anthem for a 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 from prayers or be
lls, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What cand
les 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 s
hall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of silent minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. "Dulce et Decorum Est " Wilfred Owen Be
nt double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs An
d 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 w
ith fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting th
e clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . . 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, choki
ng, 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, Hi
s hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cance
r, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some de
sperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. "The Happy Warrior" Herbert Read His wild heart beats with painful sobs, His strin'd
hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His aching jaws grip a hot parch'd tongue, His wide eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. Bloody saliva Dribbl
es down his shapeless jacket. I saw him stab And stab again A well-killed Boche. This is the happy warrior, This is he... "Before Action" W.N.Hodgson
By all the glories of the day And the cool evening's benison, By that last sunset touch that lay Upon the hills where day was done, By beauty lavisg
hly outpoured And blessings carelessly received, By all the days that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of man's hopes and fears, And al
l 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 h
is, 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 The
ir 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. "Back" Wilfred Gibson They ask me where I've been, And what I've done and seen. But what can I reply Who know it wasn't I, But someon
e 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 nam
e. "MCMXIV" Philip Larkin 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 Grinning as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the
sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And 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 flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday li
nes Under wheats' restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence,
Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages Lasting a little while