bobbyenglish.educationbobbyenglish.education/wp/wp...War-Poetry-Booklet.docx · Web viewVisser ‘t Hooft Lyceum Leiden English Department. 1. ... Nor my titanic tears, the seas,

Visser ‘t Hooft Lyceum Leiden English Department

1Robert Laytham

Poetry of theGreat War


2Robert Laytham


The poetic arts existed for millennia, evidence of growing civilization and awareness of Art. Each

age and generation has contributed its own vision of the world in poetry and, without doubt,

poetry can express myriad emotions and insights into the world of Man.

Few poetical genres, however, encompass the gamut of passions as extensively as that of the

Poetry of the Great War. This genre comprises the work of many poets from many different social

stations and educational backgrounds. These poets wrote in many different forms but over the

four-year course of the Great War from 28 July 1914 to 11 November 1918, the various stages of

the war were vividly recorded by men who saw and experienced the very depths of human

degradation, despair and desolation.

The war began as the result of the assassination of one man, Crown Prince Franz Ferdinand of the

Austro-Hungarian Empire in Sarajevo on 28 July 1914. The Austrian government accused the

Serbian authorities of collusion in the assassination and declared war on Serbia. German joined

them in this war, Russia stepped in to help Serbia as a fellow Slavic and Orthodox country.

Germany attacked France, an ally of Russia and Great Britain with whom France had a treaty was

drawn reluctantly into the fray.

The death of one man cannot have been the sole cause: it must be remembered that there were

growing tensions in Europe between the established British Empire and the developing

Germanification or Russification of areas of mainland Europe. Germany attacked France via the

safest route – through Belgium – and the war, seen by both sides as a short-lived affair,

developed into the first modern war along a line from the Belgian coast through Eastern France

as far as Switzerland.

3Robert Laytham


4Robert Laytham


This modern war saw the development of trench warfare, the use of poison gas, tanks, airplanes

and aerial bombing. The generals, though, had grown up in the tradition of horse-mounted

cavalry and the use of the sword. They were completely unused to possibilities of mass

destruction offered by new technology. The soldiers themselves were seen as expendable,

justifiable casualties of a just war. Conscription was introduced to make up the shortfall of men as

the war progressed or, rather, did not progress according the plans of the commanders who were

always situated out of harm’s way behind the lines. The Great War period was acts of selfless

heroism and barbarism in equal measure but the war was fought alongside empty promises and

disregard for human life bordering on madness. At its end, Europe had lost nearly a generation of

its young men, millions of men on both sides of the line, and many hoped in vain that this would

be the Final European War, the war to end all wars. To promote this ideal, the League of Nations

was established in 1920. Despite some early successes, the League was unable to stop the

outbreak of the Second World War in September 1939, which was a direct consequence of the

Great War and its concluding treaty, the Treaty of Versailles, drawn up in June 1919.

In order to understand the context of the poetry of the Great War, it is important to know the

world as it was then. In Britain, the first decade of the 20th Century was one of relative prosperity

and comfort, for the wealthy at least. Food was plentiful and cheap as a result of imports from

the Empire. The taxation rate was low and workers were plentiful and cheap which offered the

wealthy the opportunity to enjoy a carefree and indolent lifestyle, supported and cared for by an

army of domestic staff.

For the ordinary people, however, things were not so easy. There was poor provision of health

care and little in the way of social provision in old age or illness. It was only the lavish

5Robert Laytham


6Robert Laytham

http://www.google.com/imgres?q=edwardian+social+classes&hl=en&gbv=2&biw=1024&bih=448&tbm=isch&tbnid=TnqMg6Rh87CUKM:&imgrefurl=http://cookit.e2bn.org/historycookbook/22-111-Life-in-edwardians-and-ww1.html&docid=0-_69rlue3bqAM&imgurl=http://cookit.e2bn.org/library/1244317114/british_suffragettea.original.jpg&w=795&h=764&ei=8rvkTsT4No2M-wbklo3bBQ&zoom=1


use of low-paid domestic staff which kept so many working-class people from the brink of

starvation. Education, compulsory since 1870, was largely rudimentary and covered only the

basics or reading, writing and arithmetic (jokingly called the 3Rs). The number of workers was

large and those in work were unable or unwilling to risk losing their jobs through striking or

campaigning for improved democratic representation in the electoral system. Women also

remained disenfranchised and would not get the right to vote until after the war.

The young, privileged men who came from the Public Schools and provided the bulk of the officer

ranks were forced into close contact for the first time with the ordinary men from working-class

backgrounds who formed the ranks of troops in the artillery and infantry regiments which were

called together. These privileged men had largely enjoyed a classical, Hellenistic education but

they came to care for the men they commanded and to share their suffering and sorrows. They

also grew to hate those officers at “High Command” who governed the course of the war at a

safe distance. This hatred grew into an outpouring of the bitterest anger and rage, the backbone

of the War Poetry genre.

Although reasons and causes can be found and explained, ultimately The Great War can only be

seen as an act of collective madness, a hysteria which pervaded Europe and beyond like the

insidious effects of a gas bomb, creeping and poisoning indiscriminately. Robert Graves described

it as “an infection of the common sky” in his “Recalling the War”. (Collected Poems, 1938)

This booklet comprises a selection of poetry which covers the various moods which surfaced

during the course of the war, from the initial, buoyant optimism, through the horror of

mechanized butchery and lack of respect for the soldiers as humans, to the final reproaches,

blame and calls for honour to be shown to the fallen for their sacrifice.

7Robert Laytham


I. Peace (Rupert Brooke, 1887 - 1915)

8Robert Laytham


Now, God be thanked Who has watched us with His hour,

And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,

With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,

To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,

Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,

Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,

And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,

And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,

Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,

Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;

Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there

But only agony, and that has ending;

And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

II. Safety (Rupert Brooke)

9Robert Laytham


Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest

He who has found our hid security,

Assured in the dark tides of the world that rest,

And heard our word, 'Who is so safe as we?'

We have found safety with all things undying,

The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,

The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,

And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.

We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.

We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.

War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,

Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;

Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;

And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

10Robert Laytham


III. The Dead (Rupert Brooke)

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!

There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,

But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.

These laid the world away; poured out the red

Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be

Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,

That men call age; and those who would have been,

Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,

Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.

Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,

And paid his subjects with a royal wage;

And Nobleness walks in our ways again;

And we have come into our heritage.

11Robert Laytham


IV. The Dead (Rupert Brooke)

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,

Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,

And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movements, and heard music; known

Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;

Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;

Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter

And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,

Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance

And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white

Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,

A width, a shining peace, under the night.

12Robert Laytham


V. The Soldier (Rupert Brooke)

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.

13Robert Laytham


14Robert Laytham


VI. Anthem for Doomed Youth (Wilfred Owen, 1893 - 1918)

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 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 good-byes.

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.

15Robert Laytham


16Robert Laytham


VII. On Seeing a Piece of Our Artillery Brought into Action (Wilfred Owen)

Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,

Great gun towering towards Heaven, about to curse;

Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse

Huge imprecations like a blasting charm!

Reach at that Arrogance which needs thy harm,

And beat it down before its sins grow worse;

Spend our resentment, cannon,--yea, disburse

Our gold in shapes of flame, our breaths in storm.

Yet, for men's sakes whom thy vast malison

Must wither innocent of enmity,

Be not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done,

Safe to the bosom of our prosperity.

But when thy spell be cast complete and whole,

May God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!

S.I.W. (Wilfred Owen)

17Robert Laytham


I will to the king,

And offer him consolation in his trouble,

For that man there has set his teeth to die,

And being one that hates obedience,

Discipline, and orderliness of life,

I cannot mourn him.

(W.B. Yeats, 1865 – 1939)

1. The Prologue

Patting goodbye, doubtless they had told the lad

He’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face;

Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace, -

Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.

Perhaps his mother whimpered how she’d fret

Until he got a nice safe wound to nurse.

Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse…

Brothers – would send his favourite cigarette.

Each week, month after month, they wrote the same,

Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut,

Because he said so, writing on his butt

Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim

And misses teased the hunger of his brain.18

Robert Laytham


His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand

Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand

From the best sand-bags after years of rain.

But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,

Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld

For torture of lying machinally shelled,

At the pleasure of this world’s Powers who’d run amok.

He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol,

Their people never knew. Yet they were vile.

“Death sooner than dishonor, that’s the style!”

So Father said.

2. The Action

One dawn, our wire patrol

Carried him. This time, Death had not missed.

We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough.

19Robert Laytham


20Robert Laytham


Could it be accident? – Rifles go off…

Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)

3. The Poem

It was the reasoned crisis of his soul

Against more days of inescapable thrall,

Against infrangibly wired and blind trench wall

Curtained with fire, roofed in with creeping fire,

Slow grazing fire, that would not burn him whole

But kept him for death’s promises and scoff,

And life’s half-promising, and both their riling.

4. The Epilogue

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,

And truthfully wrote the mother “Tim died smiling.”

(S.I.W. = Self-inflicted Wound)

21Robert Laytham


VIII. The End (Wilfred Owen)

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 by 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?

When I do ask white Age he saith not so:

'My head hangs weighed with snow.'

And when I hearken to the Earth, she saith:

'My fiery heart shrinks, aching. It is death.

Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified,

Nor my titanic tears, the seas, be dried.'

22Robert Laytham


IX. 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, bloodshot. 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 misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

23Robert Laytham


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,24

Robert Laytham


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 writing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick with 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.

25Robert Laytham


26Robert Laytham


X. Disabled (Wilfred Owen)

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,

And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,

Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park

Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,

Voices of play and pleasure after day,

Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay

When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees

And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,

— In the old times, before he threw away his knees.

Now he will never feel again how slim

Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,

All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,

For it was younger than his youth, last year.

Now he is old; his back will never brace;

He's lost his colour very far from here,

Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,

And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,

And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,

27Robert Laytham


28Robert Laytham


After the matches carried shoulder-high.

It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,

He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .

Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.

That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,

Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,

He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;

Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears

Of Fear came yet. 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.

To-night he noticed how the women's eyes

Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.

How cold and late it is! Why don't they come

And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

29Robert Laytham


30Robert Laytham


XI. Dreamers (Siegfried Sassoon 1886 - 1967)

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,

Drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows.

In the great hour of destiny they stand,

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin

They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I see them in foul dugouts, gnawed by rats,

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain

Bank holidays, and picture shows, and spats,

And going to the office in the train.

31Robert Laytham


32Robert Laytham


XII. Glory of Women (Siegfried Sassoon)

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.

33Robert Laytham


34Robert Laytham


XIII. Remorse (Siegfried Sassoon)

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,

"Could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders,

Remembering how he saw those Germans run,

Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees:

Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one

Livid with terror, clutching at his knees. . .

Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs . . . "O hell!"

He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell

Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads

Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."

35Robert Laytham


XIV. The Poet as Hero (Siegfried Sassoon)

You've heard me, scornful, harsh, and discontented,

Mocking and loathing War: you've asked me why

Of my old, silly sweetness I've repented--

My ecstasies changed to an ugly cry.

You are aware that once I sought the Grail,

Riding in armour bright, serene and strong;

And it was told that through my infant wail

There rose immortal semblances of song.

But now I've said good-bye to Galahad,

And am no more the knight of dreams and show:

For lust and senseless hatred make me glad,

And my killed friends are with me where I go.

Wound for red wound I burn to smite their wrongs;

And there is absolution in my songs.

36Robert Laytham


XV. “When you see millions of the mouthless dead”(Charles Sorley 1895 - 1915)

When you see millions of the mouthless dead

Across your dreams in pale battalions go,

Say not soft things as other men have said,

That you'll remember. For you need not so.

Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know

It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?

Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.

Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.

Say only this, 'They are dead.' Then add thereto,

'Yet many a better one has died before.'

Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you

Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,

It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.

Great death has made all his for evermore.

37Robert Laytham


38Robert Laytham


XVI. Ypres (Laurence Binyon 1869 - 1943)

She was a city of patience; of proud name,

Dimmed by neglecting Time; of beauty and loss;

Of acquiescence in the creeping moss.

But on a sudden fierce destruction came

Tigerishly pouncing: thunderbolt and flame

Showered on her streets, to shatter them and toss

Her ancient towers to ashes. Riven across,

She rose, dead, into never-dying fame.

White against heavens of storm, a ghost, she is known

To the world's ends. The myriads of the brave

Sleep round her. Desolately glorified,

She, moon-like, draws her own far-moving tide

Of sorrow and memory; toward her, each alone,

Glide the dark dreams that seek an English grave.

39Robert Laytham


40Robert Laytham


XVII. The Pity of It (Laurence Binyon)

I walked in loamy Wessex lanes, afar

From rail-track and from highway, and I heard

In field and farmstead many an ancient word

Of local lineage like "Thu bist," "Er war,"

"Ich woll," "Er sholl," and by-talk similar,

Nigh as they speak who in this month's moon gird

At England's very loins, thereunto spurred

By gangs whose glory threats and slaughters are.

Then seemed a Heart crying: "Whosoever they be

At root and bottom of this, who flung this flame

Between folk kin tongued even as are we,

"Sinister, ugly, lurid, be their fame;

May their familiars grow to shun their name,

And their brood perish everlastingly."

41Robert Laytham


42Robert Laytham


XVIII. April 1918 (Henry Christopher Bradby 1868 - 1947)

You, whose forebodings have been all fulfilled,

You who have heard the bell, seen the boy stand

Holding the flimsy message in his hand

While through your heart the fiery question thrilled

"Wounded or killed, which, which?"--and it was "Killed--"

And in a kind of trance have read it, numb

But conscious that the dreaded hour was come,

No dream this dream wherewith your blood was chilled--

Oh brothers in calamity, unknown

Companions in the order of black loss,

Lift up your hearts, for your are not alone,

And let our sombre hosts together bring

Their sorrows to the shadow of the Cross

And learn the fellowship of suffering.

43Robert Laytham


XIX. War and Peace (Edgell Rickword 1898 - 1982)

In sodden trenches I have heard men speak,

Though numb and wretched, wise and witty things;

And loved them for the stubbornness that clings

Longest to laughter when Death's pulleys creak;

And seeing cool nurses move on tireless feet

To do abominable things with grace,

Deemed them sweet sisters in that haunted place

Where, with child's voices, strong men howl or bleat.

Yet now those men lay stubborn courage by,

Riding dull-eyed and silent in the train

To old men's stools; or sell gay-coloured socks

And listen fearfully for Death; so I

Love the low-laughing girls, who now again

Go daintily, in thin and flowery frocks.

44Robert Laytham


XX. Hardness of Heart (Edward Shillito 1872- 1948)

In the first watch no death but made us mourn;

Now tearless eyes run down the daily roll,

Whose names are written in the book of death;

For sealed are now the springs of tears, as when

The tropic sun makes dry the torrent's course

After the rains. They are too many now

For mortal eyes to weep, and none can see

But God alone the Thing itself and live.

We look to seaward, and behold a cry!

To skyward, and they fall as stricken birds

On autumn fields; and earth cries out its toll,

From the Great River to the world's end--toll

Of dead, and maimed and lost; we dare not stay;

Tears are not endless and we have no more.

45Robert Laytham


XXI. The Conscript (Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 1878 - 1962)

46Robert Laytham


Indifferent, flippant, earnest, but all bored,

The doctors sit in the glare of electric light

Watching the endless stream of naked white

Bodies of men for whom their hasty award

Means life or death maybe, or the living death

Of mangled limbs, blind eyes, or a darkened brain;

And the chairman, as his monocle falls again,

Pronounces each doom with easy indifferent breath.

Then suddenly I shudder as I see

A young man stand before them wearily,

Cadaverous as one already dead;

But still they stare untroubled as he stands

With arms outstretched and drooping thorn-crowned head,

The nail-marks glowing in his feet and hands.

47Robert Laytham


XXII. Advent, 1916 (Eva Dobell 1867 - 1963)

I dreamt last night Christ came to earth again

To bless His own. My soul from place to place

On her dream-quest sped, seeking for His face

Through temple and town and lovely land, in vain.

Then came I to a place where death and pain

Had made of God's sweet world a waste forlorn,

With shattered trees and meadows gashed and torn,

Where the grim trenches scarred the shell-sheared plain.

And through that Golgotha of blood and clay,

Where watchers cursed the sick dawn, heavy-eyed,

There (in my dream) Christ passed upon His way,

Where His cross marks their nameless graves who died

Slain for the world's salvation where all day

For others' sake strong men are crucified.

48Robert Laytham


XXIII. Home Service (Geoffrey Faber 1889 - 1961)

"At least it wasn't your fault" I hear them console

When they come back, the few that will come back.

I feel those handshakes now. "Well, on the whole

You didn't miss much. I wish I had your knack

Of stopping out. You still can call your soul

Your own, at any rate. What a priceless slack

You've had, old chap. It must have been top-hole.

How's poetry? I bet you've written a stack."

What shall I say? That it's been damnable?

That all the time my soul was never my own?

That we've slaved hard at endless make-believe?

It isn't only actual war that's hell,

I'll say. It's spending youth and hope alone

Among pretences that have ceased to deceive.

49Robert Laytham


50Robert Laytham


XXIV. To England--A Note (Ivor Gurney 1890 - 1937)

I watched the boys of England where they went

Through mud and water to do appointed things.

See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings,

And one comes slowly under a burden bent

Of ammunition. Though the strength be spent

They "carry on" under the shadowing wings

Of Death the ever-present. And hark, one sings

Although no joy from the grey skies be lent.

Are these the heroes--these? have kept from you

The power of primal savagery so long?

Shall break the devil's legions? These they are

Who do in silence what they might boast to do;

In the height of battle tell the world in song

How they do hate and fear the face of War.

51Robert Laytham

Documents

bobbyenglish.educationbobbyenglish.education/wp/wp...War-Poetry-Booklet.docx · Web viewVisser ‘t Hooft Lyceum Leiden English Department. 1. ... Nor my titanic tears, the seas,