"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine....
Not much to me is yonder lane Where I go every day; But when there's been a shower of rain And hedge-birds whistle gay, I know my lad that's out in France With fearsome things to see...
"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 broke In the tired voice that quavered to a choke....
God with a Roll of Honour in His hand Sits welcoming the heroes who have died, While sorrowless angels ranked on either side Stand easy in Elysium's meadow-land. Then you come shyly through the garden gate,...
Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald; Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stooked field, With sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. ...
I watch you, gazing at me from the wall, And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, I could call You back to share this quiet candle-shine. ...
The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass And halt, but never see them; yet they're here - A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear....
He primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his head Against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said: "You'd think so much bereavement would have made Unusual big demands upon my trade....
When life was a cobweb of stars for Beauty who came In the whisper of leaves or a bird's lone cry in the glen, On dawn-lit hills and horizons girdled with flame...
The Bishop tells us: "When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they'll have fought In a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrade's blood has bought...
Tossed on the glittering air they soar and skim, Whose voices make the emptiness of light A windy palace. Quavering from the brim Of dawn, and bold with song at edge of night,...
Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you'd say, Because I'd like to know that you're all right. Tell me, have you found everlasting day, Or been sucked in by everlasting night?...
Splashing along the boggy woods all day, And over brambled hedge and holding clay, I shall not think of him: But when the watery fields grow brown and dim, And hounds have lost their fox, and horses tire,...
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy, Not in the woeful crimson of men slain, But shining as a garden; come with the streaming Banners of dawn and sundown after rain. ...
Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men...
Hullo! here's my platoon, the lot I had last year. "The war'll be over soon." "What 'opes?" "No bloody fear!" Then, "Number Seven, 'shun! All present and correct."...
Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter's night, (Unless old, hearsay memories tricked his sight), Along the pallid edge of the quiet sky He watched a nosing lorry grinding on,...