Memorial Tablet
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby’s Scheme).
I died in hell— (They called it Passchendaele).
My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare: For, though low down upon the list,
I’m there; ‘In proud and glorious memory’… that’s my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west… What greater glory could a man desire?
Siegfried Sassoon
Other author posts
Remorse
Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows Each flash and spouting crash,—each instant lit When gloom reveals the streaming rain He goes Heavily, blindly on And, while he blunders, "...
The Redeemer
Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep; There, with much work to do before the light,
Survivors
No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk Of course they’re ‘longing to go out again,’— These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk They’ll soon forget their haunted nigh...
Dreamers
Soldiers are citizens of death's gray 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