Glory Of Women
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells.
You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops 'retire' When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses—blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
Siegfried Sassoon
Другие работы автора
Fight To A Finish
The boys came back Bands played and flags were flying, And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street To cheer the soldiers who’d refrained from dying, And hear the music of returning feet ‘Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought,...
Blighters
The House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin And cackle at the Show, while prancing ranks Of harlots shrill the chorus, drunk with din; ‘We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks ’ I’d like to see a Tank come down the stalls, Lu...
The Dug-out
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen, cold, Exhausted face It hurts my heart to watch you,
Died Of Wounds
His wet white face and miserable eyes Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell His troubled voice: he did the business well The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining And calling out f...