The Things They Carried War Poems. Embassy W.H. Auden

Transcription

1 The Things They Carried War Poems Embassy W.H. Auden As evening fell the day's oppression lifted Far peaks came into focus, it had rained. Across wide lawns and cultured flowers drifted The conversation of the highly trained. Two gardeners watched them pass and priced their shoes A chauffeur waited, reading in the drive For them to finish their exchange of views. It seemed a picture of the private life. Far off, no matter what good they intended The armies waited for a verbal error With all the instruments for causing pain And on the issue of their charm depended A land laid waste, its towns in terror And all its young men slain.

2 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-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... 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, 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 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.

3 Channel Firing Thomas Hardy That night your great guns, unawares, Shook all our coffins as we lay, And broke the chancel window-squares, We thought it was the judgment day And sat upright. While drearisome Arose the howl of wakened hounds: The mouse let fall the altar-crumb, The worms drew back into the mounds, The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, No; It s gunnery practice out at sea Just as before you went below; The world is as it used to be: All nations striving strong to make Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters They do no more for Christés sake Than you who are helpless in such matters. That this is not the judgment-hour For some of them s a blessed thing, For if it were they d have to scour Hell s floor for so much threatening... Ha, ha. It will be warmer when I blow the trumpet (if indeed I ever do; for you are men, And rest eternal sorely need). So down we lay again. I wonder, Will the world ever saner be, Said one, than when He sent us under In our indifferent century! And many a skeleton shook his head. Instead of preaching forty year, My neighbour Parson Thirdly said, I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer. Again the guns disturbed the hour, Roaring their readiness to avenge, As far inland as Stourton Tower, And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

4 A Sight in Camp in the Daybreak Gray and Dim Walt Whitman A sight in camp in the daybreak gray and dim, As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless, As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent, Three forms I see on the stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying, Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket, Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all. Curious I halt and silent stand, Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket; Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes? Who are you my dear comrade? Then to the second I step--and who are you my child and darling? Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming? Then to the third--a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory; Young man I think I know you--i think this face is the face of the Christ himself, Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.

5 Anthem for a Doomed Youth 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; Nor any voice of mourning save the choir 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 patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

6 One Art, Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn t hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother s watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn t hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn t a disaster. Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan t have lied. It s evident the art of losing s not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.