The Soldier Rupert Brooke 1914

Transcription

1 The Soldier Rupert Brooke 1914 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, 5 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 10 Gives 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. In Flanders Fields John McCrae 1915 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 amid the guns below. 5 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: 10 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. 15

2 Pro Patria Owen Seaman 1915 England, in this great fight to which you go Because, where Honour calls you, go you must, Be glad, whatever comes, at least to know You have your quarrel just. Peace was your care; before the nations bar 5 Her cause you pleaded and her ends you sought; But not for her sake, being what you are, Could you be bribed and bought. Others may spurn the pledge of land to land, May with the brute sword stain a gallant past; 10 But by the seal to which you set your hand, Thank God, you still stand fast! Forth, then, to front that peril of the deep With smiling lips and in your eyes the light, Steadfast and confident, of those who keep 15 Their storied scutcheon bright. And we, whose burden is to watch and wait High-hearted ever, strong in faith and prayer, We ask what offering we may consecrate, What humble service share. 20 To steel our souls against the lust of ease; To find our welfare in the common good; To hold together, merging all degrees In one wide brotherhood; To teach that he who saves himself is lost; 25 To bear in silence though our hearts may bleed; To spend ourselves, and never count the cost, For others' greater need; To go our quiet ways, subdued and sane; To hush all vulgar clamour of the street; 30 With level calm to face alike the strain Of triumph or defeat; This be our part, for so we serve you best, So best confirm their prowess and their pride, Your warrior sons, to whom in this high test 35 Our fortunes we confide.

3 Pain Ivar Gurney 1916 Pain, pain continual; pain unending; Hard even to the roughest, but to those Hungry for beauty Not the wisest knows. Nor most pitiful-hearted, what the wending Of one hour s way meant. Gray monotony lending 5 Weight to the gray skies, gray mud where goes An army of gray bedrenched scarecrows in rows Careless at last of cruellest Fate-sending. Seeing the pitiful eyes of men foredone, Or horses shot, too tired merely to stir, 10 Dying in shell-holes both, slain by the mud. Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun. Till pain grinds down, or lethargy numbs her, The amazed heart cries angrily out on God. Dreamers Siegfried Sassoon 1917 Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win 5 Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain. 10 Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train.

4 Anthem for Doomed Youth Wilfred Owen 1918 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 now for them; no prayers nor bells, 5 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 10 Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.

5 Dulce et Decorum Est Wilfrid Owen 1918 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 5 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; 10 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 a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 15 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; 20 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 innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 25 To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.