Repression of War Experience by Siegfried Sassoon

    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 bumps 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 bloody 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.

Joy-Bells by Siegfried Sassoon

    Ring your sweet bells; but let them be farewells
    To the green-vista'd gladness of the past
    That changed us into soldiers; swing your bells
    To a joyful chime; but let it be the last.

    What means this metal in windy belfries hung
    When guns are all our need? Dissolve these bells
    Whose tones are tuned for peace: with martial tongue
    Let them cry doom and storm the sun with shells.

    Bells are like fierce-browed prelates who proclaim
    That "if our Lord returned He'd fight for us."
    So let our bells and bishops do the same,
    Shoulder to shoulder with the motor bus.

Before the Battle by Siegfried Sassoon

    Music of whispering trees
    Hushed by the broad-winged breeze
    Where shaken water gleams;
    And evening radiance falling
    With reedy bird-notes calling.
    O bear me safe through dark, you low-voiced streams.

    I have no need to pray
    That fear may pass away;
    I scorn the growl and rumble of the fight
    That summons me from cool
    Silence of marsh and pool,
    And yellow lilies islanded in light.
    O river of stars and shadows, lead me through the night.

    June 25th, 1916.