All Poems

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Blighters

© Siegfried Sassoon

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;
Were sure the Kaiser loves our dear old Tanks!

What the Captain Said at the Point-to-Point

© Siegfried Sassoon

Ive had a good bump round; my little horse
Refused the brook first time,
Then jumped it prime;
And ran out at the double,

Slumber-Song

© Siegfried Sassoon

Sleep; and my song shall build about your bed
A paradise of dimness. You shall feel
The folding of tired wings; and peace will dwell
Throned in your silence: and one hour shall hold

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz--
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'

The Death-Bed

© Siegfried Sassoon

He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.

Died of Wounds

© Siegfried Sassoon

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.

Idyll

© Siegfried Sassoon

In the grey summer garden I shall find you
With day-break and the morning hills behind you.
There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;
And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.

Limitations

© Siegfried Sassoon

If you could crowd them into forty lines!
Yes; you can do it, once you get a start;
All that you want is waiting in your head,
For long-ago youve learnt it off by heart.

A Letter Home

© Siegfried Sassoon

(To Robert Graves) I Here I'm sitting in the gloom
Of my quiet attic room.
France goes rolling all around,
Fledged with forest May has crowned.

Secret Music

© Siegfried Sassoon

I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty, garlanded in hell.

Repression of War Experience

© Siegfried Sassoon

Now light the candles; one; two; theres a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame
No, no, not that,its bad to think of war,

Butterflies

© Siegfried Sassoon

Frail Travellers, deftly flickering over the flowers;
O living flowers against the heedless blue
Of summer days, what sends them dancing through
This fiery-blossomd revel of the hours?

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.

A Poplar and the Moon

© Siegfried Sassoon

There stood a Poplar, tall and straight;
The fair, round Moon, uprisen late,
Made the long shadow on the grass
A ghostly bridge twixt heaven and me.

Reconciliation

When you are standing at your heros grave,
Or near some homeless village where he died,
Remember, through your hearts rekindling pride,
The German soldiers who were loyal and brave.

The One-Legged Man

Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald;
Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls;
A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stalked field,
And sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls.

How to Die

Dark clouds are smouldering into red
While down the craters morning burns.
The dying soldier shifts his head
To watch the glory that returns;

The Fathers

Snug at the club two fathers sat,
Gross, goggle-eyed, and full of chat.
One of them said: My eldest lad
Writes cheery letters from Bagdad.
But Arthurs getting all the fun
At Arras with his nine-inch gun.

Everyone Sang

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight.

A Whispered Tale

Id heard fool-heroes brag of where theyd been,
With stories of the glories that theyd seen.
But you, good simple soldier, seasoned well
In woods and posts and crater-lines of hell,