The Somme Valley, June, 1917

Comrade, why do you weep?
    Is it sorrow for a friend
Who fell, rifle in hand,
    His last stand at an end?

The thunder-lipped grey guns
    Lament him, fierce and slow,
Where he found his dreamless bed,
    Head to head with a foe.

The sweet lark beats on high
    For the peace of those who sleep
In the quiet embrace of earth:
    Comrade, why do you weep?

Frank James Prewett

Frank James Prewett was a Canadian poet born on August 24, 1893, in Ontario, Canada. He became associated with British literary circles and served in the First World War, during which he was seriously injured. His work often reflects the impact of war and his experiences as a soldier. A member of the famous Bloomsbury Group, Prewett's poetry gained recognition for its poignant, realistic portrayal of war and its aftermath. He passed away on February 16, 1962, leaving behind a substantial body of work that continues to be studied for its historical and literary significance.

Frank James Prewett

Voices Of Women

Frank James Prewett, Simple Poetry

The Kelso Road

Frank James Prewett, Simple Poetry

To My Mother In Canada, From Sick-Bed In Italy

Frank James Prewett, Simple Poetry

English

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On The Western Front

(1916)


I.

I found a dreadful acre of the dead,
    Marked with the only sign on earth that saves.
The wings of death were hurrying overhead,
    The loose earth shook on those unquiet graves;

For the deep gun-pits, with quick stabs of flame,
    Made their own thunders of the sunlit air;
Yet, as I read the crosses, name by name,
    Mort pour la France, it seemed that peace was there;
Sunlight and peace, a peace too deep for thought,
    The peace of tides that underlie our strife,
The peace with which the moving heavens are fraught,
    The peace that is our everlasting life.

The loose earth shook. The very hills were stirred.
The silence of the dead was all I heard.


II.

We, who lie here, have...

Alfred Noyes

Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France

(To have been read before the statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916.)


I

Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When - with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray -
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
Obscurely fallen here beyond the seas.
Those to preserve their country's greatness died;
But by the death of these
Something that we can look upon with pride
Has been achieved, nor wholly unreplied
Can sneerers triumph in the charge they make
That from a war where Freedom was at stake
America withheld and, daunted, stood aside.


II

Be the...

Alan Seeger

The Letters Of The Dead

A letter came from Dick to-day;
A greeting glad he sends to me.
He tells of one more bloody fray,
Of how with bomb and rifle they
Have put their mark for all to see
Across rock-ribbed Gallipoli.

How are you doing? Hope all's well,
I in great nick, and like the work.
Though there may be a brimstone smell,
And other pungent hints of Hell,
Not Satan's self can make us shirk
Our task of hitting up the Turk.

You bet old Slacks is not half bad
He knows his business in a scrim.
He gets cold steel, or we are glad
To stop him with a bullet, lad.
Or sling a bomb his hair to trim;
But, straight, we throw no mud at him.

He fights and falls, and comes again,
And knocks our charging lines about.
He's game at heart, and tough in grain...

Edward

In The Trenches

    All day the guns belched fire and death
        And filled the hours with gloom;
    The fateful music smote the sky
        In tremulous bars of doom;
    But as the evening stars came forth
        A truce to death and strife,
    There rose from hearts of patriot love
        A tender song of life.

    A song of home and fireside
        Swelled on the evening air,
    And men forgot their battle line,
        Its carnage and dark care;
    The soldier dropp'd his rifle
        And joined the choral song,
    As high above the tide of war
        It swept and pulsed along.

    That night while sleeping where the stars
        Look down upon the Meuse,
    Where Teuton valor coped with Frank,
        Where rained most deadly de...

Thomas O'Hagan

The Aisne (1914-15)

We first saw fire on the tragic slopes
Where the flood-tide of France's early gain,
Big with wrecked promise and abandoned hopes,
Broke in a surf of blood along the Aisne.

The charge her heroes left us, we assumed,
What, dying, they reconquered, we preserved,
In the chill trenches, harried, shelled, entombed,
Winter came down on us, but no man swerved.

Winter came down on us. The low clouds, torn
In the stark branches of the riven pines,
Blurred the white rockets that from dusk till morn
Traced the wide curve of the close-grappling lines.

In rain, and fog that on the withered hill
Froze before dawn, the lurking foe drew down;
Or light snows fell that made forlorner still
The ravaged country and the ruined town;

Or the long clouds would ...

Alan Seeger

Battle Passes

A quaint old gabled cottage sleeps between the raving hills.
To right and left are livid strife, but on the deep, wide sills
The purple pot-flowers swell and glow, and o'er the walls and eaves
Prinked creeper steals caressing hands, the poplar drips its leaves.
Within the garden hot and sweet
Fair form and woven color meet,
While down the clear, cool stones, 'tween banks with branch and blossom gay,
A little, bridged, blind rivulet goes touching out its way.

Peace lingers hidden from the knife, the tearing blinding shell,
Where falls the spattered sunlight on a lichen-covered well.
No voice is here, no fall of feet, no smoke lifts cool and grey,
But on the granite stoop a cat blinks vaguely at the day.
From hill to hill across the vale
Storms man's terrific iron gale;<...

Edward