The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon Part 6

They're standing in the sun, impa.s.sive and erect.

Young Gibson with his grin; and Morgan, tired and white; Jordan, who's out to win a D.C.M. some night: And Hughes that's keen on wiring; and Davies ('79), Who always must be firing at the Boche front line.

"Old soldiers never die; they simply fide a-why!"

That's what they used to sing along the roads last spring; That's what they used to say before the push began; That's where they are to-day, knocked over to a man.

TO ANY DEAD OFFICER

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?

For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain; I hear you make some cheery old remark-- I can rebuild you in my brain, Though you've gone out patrolling in the dark.

You hated tours of trenches; you were proud Of nothing more than having good years to spend; Longed to get home and join the careless crowd Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend.

That's all washed out now. You're beyond the wire: No earthly chance can send you crawling back; You've finished with machine-gun fire-- Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.

Somehow I always thought you'd get done in, Because you were so desperate keen to live: You were all out to try and save your skin, Well knowing how much the world had got to give.

You joked at sh.e.l.ls and talked the usual "shop,"

Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine: With "Jesus Christ! when _will_ it stop?

Three years.... It's h.e.l.l unless we break their line."

So when they told me you'd been left for dead I wouldn't believe them, feeling it _must_ be true.

Next week the b.l.o.o.d.y Roll of Honour said "Wounded and missing"--(That's the thing to do When lads are left in sh.e.l.l-holes dying slow, With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache, Moaning for water till they know It's night, and then it's not worth while to wake!)

Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to G.o.d, And tell Him that our Politicians swear They won't give in till Prussian Rule's been trod Under the Heel of England.... Are you there?...

Yes ... and the War won't end for at least two years; But we've got stacks of men ... I'm blind with tears, Staring into the dark. Cheero!

I wish they'd killed you in a decent show.

SICK LEAVE

When I'm asleep, dreaming and lulled and warm,-- They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead.

While the dim charging breakers of the storm Bellow and drone and rumble overhead, Out of the gloom they gather about my bed.

They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine.

"Why are you here with all your watches ended?

From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line."

In bitter safety I awake, unfriended; And while the dawn begins with slas.h.i.+ng rain I think of the Battalion in the mud.

"When are you going out to them again?

Are they not still your brothers through our blood?"

BANISHMENT

I am banished from the patient men who fight.

They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.

Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side, They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.

Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight They went arrayed in honour. But they died,-- Not one by one: and mutinous I cried To those who sent them out into the night.

The darkness tells how vainly I have striven To free them from the pit where they must dwell In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.

Love drives me back to grope with them through h.e.l.l; And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.

AUTUMN

October's bellowing anger breaks and cleaves The bronzed battalions of the stricken wood In whose lament I hear a voice that grieves For battle's fruitless harvest, and the feud Of outraged men. Their lives are like the leaves Scattered in flocks of ruin, tossed and blown Along the westering furnace flaring red.

O martyred youth and manhood overthrown, The burden of your wrongs is on my head.

REPRESSION OF WAR EXPERIENCE

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame-- No, no, not that,--it's bad to think of war, When thoughts you've gagged all day come back to scare you; And it's been proved that soldiers don't go mad Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.

Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, And you're as right as rain.... Why won't it rain?...

I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads.

Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green And every kind of colour. Which will you read?

Come on; O _do_ read something; they're so wise.

I tell you all the wisdom of the world Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling There's one big, dizzy moth that b.u.mps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house The garden waits for something that delays.

There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,-- Not people killed in battle,--they're in France,-- But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who died Slow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.

You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; You'd never think there was a b.l.o.o.d.y war on!...

O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.

Hark! Thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease-- Those whispering guns--O Christ, I want to go out And screech at them to stop--I'm going crazy; I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

TOGETHER

Splas.h.i.+ng 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, I know that he'll be with me on my way Home through the darkness to the evening fire.

He's jumped each stile along the glistening lanes; His hand will be upon the mud-soaked reins; Hearing the saddle creak, He'll wonder if the frost will come next week.

I shall forget him in the morning light; And while we gallop on he will not speak: But at the stable-door he'll say good-night.

THE HAWTHORN TREE

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 Would give his eyes for just one glance At our white hawthorn tree.

Not much to me is yonder lane Where _he_ so longs to tread; But when there's been a shower of rain I think I'll never weep again Until I've heard he's dead.