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The Great War War Poets
The Hero 'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,And folded up the letter that she'd read.'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something brokeIn the tired voice that quivered to a choke.She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proudOf our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed. Quietly the Brother Officer went out.He'd told the poor old dear some gallant liesThat she would nourish all her days, no doubtFor while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyesHad shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy. He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,Had panicked down the trench that night the mineWent up at Wicked Corner; how he'd triedTo get sent home, and how, at last, he died,Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to careExcept that lonely woman with white hair. Siegfried Sassoon
Have You News of my Boy Jack? "Have you news of my boy Jack?"Not this tide."When d'you think that he'll come back?"Not with this wind blowing, and this tide."Has any one else had word of him?"Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind -Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide. Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide. Rudyard Kipling
The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, 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 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. Rupert Brooke
To His Love He's gone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.We'll walk no more on CotswoldWhere the sheep feedQuietly and take no heed. His body that was so quick Is not as youKnew it, on Severn riverUnder the blueDriving our small boat through.You would not know him now...But still he diedNobly, so cover him overWith violets of pridePurple from Severn side.Cover him, cover him soon!And with thick-setMasses of memorial flowers-Hide that red wetThing I must somehow forget. Ivor Gurney
