war poetry nov 16 em

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In The Trenches

Isaac Rosenberg

I snatched two poppiesFrom the parapets ledge,Two bright red poppiesThat winked on the ledge.Behind my earI stuck one through,One blood red poppyI gave to you.The sandbags narrowedAnd screwed out our jest,And tore the poppyYou had on your breast ...Down - a shell - O! Christ,I am choked ... safe ... dust blind, ISee trench floor poppiesStrewn. Smashed you lie.


Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun -Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.If anything might rouse him nowThe kind old sun will know.Think how it wakes the seeds -Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sidesFull-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?Was it for this the clay grew tall?- O what made fatuous sunbeams toilTo break earths sleep at all?

Ode of Remembrance

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.At the going down of the sun and in the morning,We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;They sit no more at familiar tables of home;They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;They sleep beyond England's foam.

We will remember them.


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