'War Poetry\r'

' sophisticated History Sourcebook: World War I Poetry: Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967):”How to dash” Link to accumulate Poems [At Columbia] Wilf blood-red Owen (1893-1918):”Anthem for a lost offspring” Link to Collected Poems [At Toronto] Wilfred Owen: â€Å"Dulce et Decorum Est” Herbert translate (1893-1968): â€Å"The prosperous Warrior” W. N. Hodgson (1893-1916): â€Å" originally Action” Wilfred Gibson (1878-1962) â€Å" O.K.” Link to Collected Poems [At Columbia] Philip Larkin (1922-1985): â€Å"MCMXIV” Link to Poems [At Hooked. net] Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967) â€Å"How to Die” Dark clouds are smouldering into red While down the craters morning burns.The death s superannuatedier shifts his head To watch the exult that returns; He lifts his fingers toward the skies Where holy brightness breaks in flame; Radiance reflected in his eyeball, And on his lips a whispered name. Youd think, to hear close to(pr enominal) people talk, That lads go West with sobs and curses, And sour faces white as chalk, Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses. precisely theyve been taught the way to do it Like Christian s matureiers; not with haste And shuddering groans; barely passing through and through it With due depend for decent taste. Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) â€Å"Anthem for a Doomed Y prohibitedh” What passing-bells for these who die as kine? -Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles fast rattle Can patter away their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them from prayers or bells, Nor both voice of mourning save the choirs,- The shrill, sick(p) choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles whitethorn be held to speed them all? non in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-bys. The achromasia of girls brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of tongueless minds, And ea ch slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) â€Å"Dulce et Decorum Est â€Å"Bent double, identical old beggars down the stairs sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we unlucky through sludge, Till on the pursue flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. custody marched asleep. Many had lost their boots simply limped on, blood-shod. completely went lame; all blind; drunkard with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped poop. fellate! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the unhandy helmets just in time; But soulfulness still was yelling out and stumbling And floundring like a man in fire or lime . . . Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,As under I green ocean, I precept him drowning. In all my dreams, in the first place my baffled sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace asshole th e 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, repugnant as cancer, bitter as the good deal Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, — My friend, you would not tell with such high up appetite To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori. Herbert Read (1893-1968) â€Å"The Happy Warrior” His wild heart beats with agonising sobs, His strind hands clench an ice-cold rifle, His ache jaws grip a hot parchd tongue, His great eyes search unconsciously. He cannot shriek. flaming(a) 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… W. N. Hodgson (1893-1916) â€Å"Before Action” By all the glories of the twenty-four hourslight And the cool evenings benison, By that last sunset(a) touch that lay Upon the hills where day was done, By beauty lavisghly outpoured And blessings carelessly received,By all the old age that I have lived Make me a solider, Lord. By all of mans hopes and fears, And all the wonders poets sing, The joke of unclouded years, And every sad and c everywhere girl thing; By the romantic ages stored With high endeavor that was his, By all his feisty catastrophes Make me a man, O Lord. I, that on my familiar hill Saw with uncomprehending eyes A hundred of Thy sunsets verbalize Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice, Ere the sun swings his midday 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) â€Å"Back”They supplicate 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 essential bear the blame, Because he bore my name. Philip Larkin (1922-1985) â€Å"MCMXIV” Those foresighted 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 stick Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleach out Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns,And dark-clothed children at play Called after kings and queens, The tin advertisements For deep brown 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 infra wheats restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny dwell in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a wordâ€the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages abiding a little while intermina ble: Never such innocence again.\r\n'