Poems List

Remorse

Remorse
Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit,
He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows
Each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit
When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes
Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders,
"Could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders,
Remembering how he saw those Germans run,
Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees:
Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one
Livid with terror, clutching at his knees. . .
Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs . . . "O hell!"
He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell
Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads
Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."
103

Prelude to an Unwritten Masterpiece

Prelude to an Unwritten Masterpiece
You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
And Youth against the sun-rise ... ‘Not profound;
‘But such a haunting music in the sound:
‘Do it once more; it helps us to forget’.
Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene—
Some complex out of childhood; (sex, of course!)
I can’t remember how the trouble starts;
And then I’m running blindly in the sun
Down the old orchard, and there’s something cruel
Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit
Of clumsy anger ... Crash! I’m through the fence
And thrusting wildly down the wood that’s dense
With woven green of safety; paths that wind
Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,
One thwarted yell; then silence. I’ve escaped.
That’s where it used to stop. Last night I went
Onward until the trees were dark and huge,
And I was lost, cut off from all return
By swamps and birdless jungles. I’d no chance
Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,
And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.
Some day I’ll build (more ruggedly than Doughty)
A dark tremendous song you’ll never hear.
My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter
On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.
And some will say, ‘His work has grown so dreary.’
Others, ‘He used to be a charming writer’.
And you, my friend, will query—
‘Why can’t you cut it short, you pompous blighter?’
120

Parted

Parted
Sleepless I listen to the surge and drone
And drifting roar of the town’s undertone;
Till through quiet falling rain I hear the bells
Tolling and chiming their brief tune that tells
Day’s midnight end. And from the day that’s over
No flashes of delight I can recover;
But only dreary winter streets, and faces
Of people moving in loud clanging places:
And I in my loneliness, longing for you...
For all I did to-day, and all I’ll do
To-morrow, in this city of intense
Arteried activities that throb and strive,
Is but a beating down of that suspense
Which holds me from your arms.
I am alive
Only that I may find you at the end
Of these slow-striking hours I toil to spend,
Putting each one behind me, knowing but this—
That all my days are turning toward your kiss;
That all expectancy awaits the deep
Consoling passion of your eyes, that keep
Their radiance for my coming, and their peace
For when I find in you my love’s release.
86

Noah

Noah
When old Noah stared across the floods,
Sky and water melted into one
Looking-glass of shifting tides and sun.
Mountain-tops were few: the ship was foul:
All the morn old Noah marvelled greatly
At this weltering world that shone so stately,
Drowning deep the rivers and the plains.
Through the stillness came a rippling breeze;
Noah sighed, remembering the green trees.
Clear along the morning stooped a bird,—
Lit beside him with a blossomed sprig.
Earth was saved; and Noah danced a jig.
74

Night-Piece

Night-Piece
Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan,
Quench your fantastic lanterns and be still;
For now the moon through heaven sails alone,
Shedding her peaceful rays from hill to hill.
The faun from out his dim and secret place
Draws nigh the darkling pool and from his dream
Half-wakens, seeing there his sylvan face
Reflected, and the wistful eyes that gleam.
To his cold lips he sets the pipe to blow
Some drowsy note that charms the listening air:
The dryads from their trees come down and creep
Near to his side; monotonous and low,
He plays and plays till at the woodside there
Stirs to the voice of everlasting sleep.
102

Morning Express

Morning Express
Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white,
The travellers stand in pools of wintry light,
Offering themselves to morn’s long, slanting arrows.
The train’s due; porters trundle laden barrows.
The train steams in, volleying resplendent clouds
Of sun-blown vapour. Hither and about,
Scared people hurry, storming the doors in crowds.
The officials seem to waken with a shout,
Resolved to hoist and plunder; some to the vans
Leap; others rumble the milk in gleaming cans.
Boys, indolent-eyed, from baskets leaning back,
Question each face; a man with a hammer steals
Stooping from coach to coach; with clang and clack
Touches and tests, and listens to the wheels.
Guard sounds a warning whistle, points to the clock
With brandished flag, and on his folded flock
Claps the last door: the monster grunts: ‘Enough!’
Tightening his load of links with pant and puff.
Under the arch, then forth into blue day,
Glide the processional windows on their way,
And glimpse the stately folk who sit at ease
To view the world like kings taking the seas
in prosperous weather: drifting banners tell
Their progress to the counties; with them goes
The clamour of their journeying; while those
Who sped them stand to wave a last farewell.
79

Morning-Land

Morning-Land
Old English songs, you bring to me
A simple sweetness somewhat kin
To birds that through the mystery
Of earliest morn make tuneful din,
While hamlet steeples sleepily
At cock-crow chime out three and four,
Till maids get up betime and go
With faces like the red sun low
Clattering about the dairy floor.
92

Middle-Ages

Middle-Ages
I heard a clash, and a cry,
And a horseman fleeing the wood.
The moon hid in a cloud.
Deep in shadow I stood.
‘Ugly work!’ thought I,
Holding my breath.
‘Men must be cruel and proud,
‘Jousting for death’.
With gusty glimmering shone
The moon; and the wind blew colder.
A man went over the hill,
Bent to his horse’s shoulder.
‘Time for me to be gone’...
Darkly I fled.
Owls in the wood were shrill,
And the moon sank red.
113

Memorial Tablet

Memorial Tablet
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby’s Scheme). I died in hell—
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:
For, though low down upon the list, I’m there;
‘In proud and glorious memory’ ... that’s my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?
101

Joy-Bells

Joy-Bells
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.
104

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Identification and basic context

Siegfried Loraine Sassoon was an English poet and soldier. He was born in 1886 and died in 1967. His family was of Anglo-Jewish and English descent. Sassoon was born into a wealthy family, which provided him with a privileged upbringing. He was a British subject and wrote primarily in English.

Childhood and education

Sassoon was the second of three sons born to Alfred Ezra Sassoon and Theresa Olga Cecily Torrens. His father was from the prominent Sassoon banking family. His mother, known as 'Lisa', was of Persian Jewish and English background. He was educated at Marlborough College and later attended Clare College, Cambridge, though he did not take a degree. He spent much of his early adult life hunting, playing cricket, and writing poetry, living off his inheritance.

Literary trajectory

Sassoon began writing poetry in his early twenties. His initial works were largely Georgian in style, characterized by pastoral themes and a gentle lyricism. However, his experiences in World War I profoundly altered his perspective and poetic output. After serving on the Western Front and witnessing the brutal realities of trench warfare firsthand, his poetry became a powerful instrument of protest and disillusionment. He gained significant recognition for his stark, angry, and honest depictions of the war. He published numerous collections throughout his life, evolving from romantic ideals to profound social and spiritual commentary.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Sassoon's most famous works include the collections *The Old Huntsman and Other Poems* (1917), *Counter-Attack and Other Poems* (1918), and *Picture-Show* (1919). His war poetry is characterized by its directness, irony, and savage indignation, often using vivid imagery to convey the physical and psychological toll of conflict. Themes such as the futility of war, the suffering of soldiers, the hypocrisy of politicians, and the loss of innocence are central. His style evolved from the traditional forms of his early work to a more forceful and direct address in his war poems, often employing sharp contrasts and satirical tones. He experimented with rhythm and meter to enhance the impact of his verse. Later works explored more personal and spiritual themes, moving away from overt political protest.

Cultural and historical context

Sassoon lived through the tumultuous period of World War I, which served as a pivotal catalyst for his literary output. He was associated with the Georgian poets at the beginning of his career but became a leading voice of anti-war poetry, often seen as a precursor to the disillusionment of later modernist writers. His public denunciation of the war effort, including his famous speech at the Houses of Parliament in 1917, placed him at odds with the prevailing patriotic sentiment and military establishment. He was part of a literary milieu that included figures like Robert Graves and Wilfred Owen.

Personal life

Sassoon's personal life was marked by significant events and relationships. His mother's death when he was young had a lasting impact. His military service in World War I was a defining period, leading to injuries and profound psychological trauma. He married Hester Gatty in 1933, with whom he had a son, David Sassoon. Their marriage eventually ended. Sassoon's close friendships, notably with Wilfred Owen, were crucial, as was his later relationship with the poet and psychologist Dr. Stephen Tomlinson. His experiences, including his periods of disillusionment and search for meaning, informed his later poetry and his eventual conversion to Catholicism.

Recognition and reception

Sassoon received considerable recognition during his lifetime, particularly for his war poetry, which was seen as a vital counterpoint to official narratives of the conflict. He was awarded the Military Cross for bravery in action. His work was highly regarded by critics and the public alike for its emotional honesty and powerful indictment of war. While his reputation as a war poet has remained enduring, critical analysis has also focused on the depth and complexity of his later, more introspective works.

Influences and legacy

Sassoon was influenced by poets such as William Morris and Thomas Hardy. His own work, particularly his unflinching portrayal of war, profoundly influenced subsequent generations of war poets and writers who sought to grapple with the realities of conflict. His legacy lies in his courageous articulation of disillusionment and his contribution to a more realistic and critical mode of poetic expression. He remains a central figure in the study of WWI literature.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Sassoon's poetry is often interpreted as a powerful testament to the human cost of war and a scathing critique of the political and social forces that perpetrate it. Critics have analyzed the tension between his initial romantic sensibilities and the harsh realism imposed by his wartime experiences. His later work is explored for its exploration of faith, doubt, and the search for spiritual solace in the aftermath of trauma. The evolution of his poetic voice from anger to a more reflective and sometimes elegiac tone is a key area of critical discussion.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Despite his reputation as a fierce critic of war, Sassoon was a decorated soldier who displayed considerable bravery. He was known for his passion for hunting and country life before the war, which starkly contrasts with his later pacifist leanings. A significant event was his intentional self-wounding and subsequent declaration against the war at the Houses of Parliament, which led to him being sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital, where he met Wilfred Owen. His diaries and letters provide rich material for understanding his complex personality and creative process.

Death and memory

Siegfried Sassoon died of a heart attack in 1967 at the age of 80. His death marked the end of an era for English poetry. He is remembered as one of the foremost poets of the First World War and a significant voice in 20th-century literature. His works continue to be read, studied, and performed, ensuring his memory and the power of his protest endure.