If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.
Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
Red lips are not so red/ As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
And in the happy no-time of his sleeping/ Death took him by the heart.
Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.No soldier’s paid to kick against His powers.We laughed, — knowing that better men would come,And greater wars: when each proud fighter bragsHe wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet’s.
Dulce Et Decorum EstBent 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;...
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...
All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is...
Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier’s disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away.
Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do.
The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language…everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.
Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifle’s rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons.No mockeries now for them; no prayers, nor 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...
He’s lost his colour very far from here,Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry
All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the truest poets must be truthful.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.