| Strange
Meeting
|
- It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
- Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
|
| Greater
Love
|
- Red lips are not so red
- As the stained stones kissed by the
English dead.
|
| Apologia pro
Poemate Meo
|
- I, too, saw God through mud -- -
- The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
|
| The Show
|
- My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
- As unremembering how I rose or why,
|
| Mental
Cases
|
- Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
- Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
|
| Parable of the
Old Men and the Young
|
- So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
- And took the fire with him, and a knife.
|
| Arms and the
Boy
|
- Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
- How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
|
| Anthem for
Doomed Youth
|
- What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the
guns.
|
| The
Send-off
|
- Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
- To the siding-shed,
|
| Insensibility
|
- Happy are men who yet before they are killed
- Can let their veins run cold.
|
| Dulce et
Decorum est
|
- Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
- Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
|
| The
Sentry
|
- We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
- And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
|
| The
Dead-Beat
|
- He dropped, -- - more sullenly than wearily,
- Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
|
| Exposure
|
- Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . .
.
- Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
|
| Spring
Offensive
|
- Halted against the shade of a last hill,
- They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
|
| The
Chances
|
- I mind as 'ow the night afore that show
- Us five got talking, -- - we was in the know,
|
| S. I. W.
|
- Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
- He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;
|
| Futility
|
- Move him into the sun -- -
- Gently its touch awoke him once,
|
| Smile, Smile,
Smile
|
- Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
- Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
|
| Conscious
|
- His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
- His eyes come open with a pull of will,
|
| A Terre
|
- Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,
- Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
|
| Wild with all
Regrets
|
- My arms have mutinied against me -- - brutes!
- My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
|
| Disabled
|
- He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
- And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
|
| The End
|
- After the blast of lightning from the east,
- The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot
throne,
|
