In Shrewsbury Town e’en Hercules wox tired,
Tired of the streets that end not up nor down;
Tired of the Quarry, though seats may be hired
Of Shrewsbury Town.
Tired of the tongues that knew not his renown;
Tired of the Quarry Bye-Laws, so admired
By the Salopian, the somnambulant clown.
Weak as a babe, and in like wise attired,
He leaned upon his club; frowned a last frown,
And of ineffable boredom, so expired
In Shrewsbury Town.
– Siegfried SassoonOut there, we’ve walked quite friendly up to Death,-Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.We’ve sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-Our eyes wept, but our courage didn’t writhe.He’s spat at us with bullets and he’s coughedShrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,We whistled…
3 At home, whispering of fields unsown.4 Always it awoke him, even in France,5 Until this morning and this snow.6 If anything might rouse him now7 The kind old sun will know.8 Think how it wakes the seeds–9 Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.10 Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides11 Full-nerved,–still warm,–too hard…
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,There seeking a long sanctuary at last, –Or if I onetime hoped to hide its shame,– Shame of success, and sorrow of defeats, –Under those holy cypresses, the sameThat shade always the quiet place of Keats,Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with…
And none of us could kick him to his feet;-just blinked at my revolver, blearily;– Didn’t appear to know a war was on,Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.‘I’ll do ’em in,’ he whined. ‘If this hand’s spared,I’ll murder them, I will.’A low voice said,‘It’s Blighty, p’raps, he sees; his pluck’s all gone,Dreaming…
We smiled at nothings, needing no caress?Have we not laughed too often since with Joy?Have we not stolen too strange and sorrowful wrongsFor her hands’ pardoning? The sun may cleanse,And time, and starlight. Life will sing great songs,And gods will show us pleasures more than men’s.Yet heaven looks smaller than the old doll’s-home,No nestling place…
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms.She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,Not marvelling why her roses never fallNor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms.The shades keep down which well might roam her hall.Quiet their blood lies in her crimson roomsAnd she is not afraid of their footfall.They…
