Poems begining by T
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To Leonide Massine in Cleopatra
© Siegfried Sassoon
O beauty doomed and perfect for an hour,
Leaping along the verge of death and night,
You show me dauntless Youth that went to fight
Four long years past, discovering pride and power.
The Road
© Siegfried Sassoon
The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass
And halt, but never see them; yet theyre here
A patient crowd along the sodden grass,
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear.
To a Very Wise Man
© Siegfried Sassoon
IFires in the dark you build; tall quivering flames
In the huge midnight forest of the unknown.
Your soul is full of cities with dead names,
And blind-faced, earth-bound gods of bronze and stone
The Investiture
© Siegfried Sassoon
If I were there wed snowball Death with skulls;
Or ride away to hunt in Devils Wood
With ghosts of puppies that we walked of old.
But youre alone; and solitude annuls
Our earthly jokes; and strangely wise and good
You roam forlorn along the streets of gold.
Their Frailty
© Siegfried Sassoon
He's got a Blighty wound. Hes safe; and then
Wars fine and bold and bright.
She can forget the doomed and prisoned men
Who agonize and fight.
The Hawthorn Tree
© Siegfried Sassoon
. . . .
Not much to me is yonder lane
Where he so longs to tread:
But when theres been a shower of rain
I think Ill never weep again
Until Ive heard hes dead.
The Dream
© Siegfried Sassoon
I cannot hear their voices, but I see
Dim candles in the barn: they gulp their tea,
And soon theyll sleep like logs. Ten miles away
The battle winks and thuds in blundering strife.
And I must lead them nearer, day by day,
To the foul beast of war that bludgeons life.
The Dark House
© Siegfried Sassoon
Dusk in the rain-soaked garden,
And dark the house within.
A door creaked: someone was early
To watch the dawn begin.
The Last Meeting
© Siegfried Sassoon
Because the night was falling warm and still
Upon a golden day at Aprils end,
I thought; I will go up the hill once more
To find the face of him that I have lost,
And speak with him before his ghost has flown
Far from the earth that might not keep him long.
Tree and Sky
© Siegfried Sassoon
Let my soul, a shining tree,
Silver branches lift towards thee,
Where on a hallowed winters night
The clear-eyed angels may alight.
The Effect
© Siegfried Sassoon
The effect of our bombardment was terrific.
One man told me he had never seen so many dead before.
War Correspondent.
The Imperfect Lover
© Siegfried Sassoon
I never asked you to be perfectdid I?
Though often Ive called you sweet, in the invasion
Of mastering love. I never prayed that you
Might stand, unsoiled, angelic and inhuman,
Pointing the way toward Sainthood like a sign-post.
Together
© Siegfried Sassoon
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,
The Troops
© Siegfried Sassoon
Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom
Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals
Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots
And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky
Today
© Siegfried Sassoon
This is To-day, a child in white and blue
Running to meet me out of Night who stilled
The ghost of Yester-eve; this is fair Morn
The mother of To-morrow. And these clouds
The Heritage
© Siegfried Sassoon
For even as this, our joy not long may live
Perfect; and most in change the heart can trace
The miracle of life and human things:
All we have held to destiny we give;
Dawn glimmers on the soul-forsaken face;
Not we, but others, hear the bird that sings.
The Tombstone-Maker
© Siegfried Sassoon
He primmed his loose red mouth and leaned his head
Against a sorrowing angels breast, and said:
Youd think so much bereavement would have made
Unusual big demands upon my trade.
The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk;
Unless the fighting stops Ill soon be broke.
The Old Huntsman
© Siegfried Sassoon
Id have been prosperous if Id took a farm
Of fifty acres, drove my gig and haggled
At Monday markets; now Ive squandered all
My savings; nigh three hundred pound I got
As testimonial when Id grown too stiff
And slow to press a beaten fox.
The Goldsmith
© Siegfried Sassoon
'This job's the best I've done.' He bent his head
Over the golden vessel that he'd wrought.
A bird was singing. But the craftsman's thought
Is a forgotten language, lost and dead.
To Any Dead Officer
© Siegfried Sassoon
Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish youd say,
Because Id like to know that youre all right.
Tell me, have you found everlasting day,
Or been sucked in by everlasting night?
