Poetry quotes

’E reckoned ’e’d five chances, an’ ’e’s ’ad; ’E’s wounded, killed, and pris’ner, all the lot— The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim’s mad.

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 for them; no prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs— The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, 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 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.

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.

I, too, saw God through mud⁠— The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.

War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

I, too, saw God through mud— The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.

Merry it was to laugh there⁠— Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.

For power was on us as we slashed bones bare Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.

By Joy, whose ribbon slips— But wound with war’s hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

My arms have mutinied against me—brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My back’s been stiff for hours, damned hours.

Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

I can’t read. There: it’s no use. Take your book. A short life and a merry one, my buck! We said we’d hate to grow dead old. But now, Not to live old seems awful:

After the blast of lightning from the east, The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne, After the drums of time have rolled and ceased And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

Shall Life renew these bodies?

Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage? Or fill these void veins full again with youth And wash with an immortal water age?

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.

… 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 …

And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling, And Chance’s strange arithmetic Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling. They keep no check on Armies’ decimation.

Happy are these who lose imagination: They have enough to carry with ammunition.

Their spirit drags no pack. Their old wounds save with cold can not more ache. Having seen all things red, Their eyes are rid Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. And terror’s first constriction over, Their hearts remain small drawn.

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now …”

I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now …”

Earth’s wheels run oiled with blood.

Forget we that. Let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought. Beauty is yours and you have mastery, Wisdom is mine, and I have mystery. We two will stay behind and keep our troth.

Think how it wakes the seeds— Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth’s sleep at all?

He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.

Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole.

I tried to peg out soldierly—no use!

One dies of war like any old disease.

This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close. My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back In scarlet shreds. (That’s for your poetry book.)

Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death,

Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.

“I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone.” Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned; The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. “Pushing up daisies,” is their creed, you know.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp Stood staring hard, Sorry to miss them from the upland camp. Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp Winked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.

They were not ours: We never heard to which front these were sent.

The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow …

We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.

Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens.