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BRITISH AND AMERICAN POEMS OF WORLD WAR I 1914-1917

Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by
George Herbert Clarke
Professor of English at the University of Tennessee

RUDYARD KIPLING: The Decision

HENRY VAN DYKE: "Liberty Enlightening the World"

ROBERT BRIDGES: To the United States of America

VACHEL LINDSAY: Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight

JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER: The "William P. Frye"

FLORENCE T. HOLT: England and America

LIEUTENANT CHARLES LANGBRIDGE MORGAN: To America

HELEN GRAY CONE: A Love Chant for England

HARDWICKE DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY: At St. Paul's: April 20, 1917

ROWLAND THIRLMERE: Jimmy Doane

ALFRED NOYES: Princeton, May 1917

SIR HENRY NEWBOLT: The Watch

RUDYARD KIPLING: "For All We Have and Are"

JOHN GALSWORTHY: England to Free Men

SIR OWEN SEAMAN: For the Country

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE: Lines Written in Surrey, 1917

CECIL CHESTERTON: France

HENRY VAN DYKE: The Name of France

CHARLOTTE HOLMES CRAWFORD: Long live France!

THEODOSIA GARRISON: The Soul of Joan of Arc

EDGAR LEE MASTERS: O Glorious France

HERBERT JONES: Going to France

FLORENCE EARLE COATES: Place de la Concorde

CANON AND MAJOR FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT: To France

GRACE ELLERY CHANNING: Who's There?

LAURENCE BINYON: To the Belgians

EDITH WHARTON: Belgium

EDEN PHILLPOTTS: To Belgium

SIR OWEN SEAMAN: To Belgium in Exile

GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON: The Wife of Flanders

JOHN GALSWORTHY: Russia—USA

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON: To Russia New and Free

CLINTON SCOLLARD: Italy at War

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY: On the Italian Front, 1916

ARCHIBALD T. STRONG: Australia to England

MARJORIE L. C. PICKTHALL: Canada to England

WILFRED CAMPBELL: Langemarck at Ypres

WILL H. OGILVIE: Canadians

STEPHEN PHILLIPS: The Kaiser and Belgium

DANA BURNET: The Battle of Liège

LAURENCE BINYON: Men of Verdun

EDEN PHILLPOTTS: Verdun

PATRICK R. CHALMERS: Guns of Verdun

WINIFRED M. LETTS: The Spires of Oxford

W. SNOW: Oxford During Wartime

TERTIUS VAN DYKE: Oxford Revisited in Wartime

GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY: Sonnets Written in the Fall of 1914

SIR HENRY NEWBOLT: The War Films

Alfred Noyes: The Searchlights

PERCY MACKAYE: Christmas 1915

THOMAS HARDY: "Men Who March Away"

JOHN DRINKWATER: We Didn't Want It

LIEUTENANT-COLONEL SIR RONALD ROSS: The Death of Peace

FLORENCE EARLE COATES: During Wartime

LAURENCE BINYON: The Anvil

WALTER DE LA MARE: The Fool Rings His Bells

JOHN FINLEY: The Road to Dieppe

W. MACNEILE DIXON: To Fellow Travelers in Greece

AUSTIN DOBSON: "When there is Peace"

ALFRED NOYES: A Prayer in Time of War

THOMAS HARDY: Then & Now

BARRY PAIN: The Kaiser and God

ROBERT GRANT: The Superhero

EVERARD OWEN: Three Hills

JOHN FREEMAN: The Comeback

GRACE FALLOW NORTON: The Mobilization in Brittany

SIR HENRY NEWBOLT: The Toy Band

SIR OWEN SEAMAN: Thomas of the Light Heart

MAURICE HEWLETT: In the Trenches

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: The Guards Came Through

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS: The Passengers of a Slow Submarine

LAURENCE BUTTON: Edith Cavell

HERBERT KAUFMAN: The Hell-Gate of Soissons

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE: The Virgin of Albert

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON: Withdrawal

SIR HENRY NEWBOLT: A Letter from the Front

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING: Reims Cathedral—1914

ALAN SEEGER: I Have a Meeting with Death

LT. RUPERT BROOKE: The Soldier

CAPTAIN CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY: I Waited with Hope

Lieutenant Herbert Asquith: The Volunteer

CAPTAIN JULIAN GRENFELL: Going to Battle

JAMES NORMAN HALL: The Cricketers of Flanders

CAPTAIN CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY: "All the Hills and Valleys Along"

CAPTAIN JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN: No Man's Land

ALAN SEEGER: Champagne, 1914-15

CAPTAIN GILBERT FRANKAU: HQ

LIEUTENANT E. WYNDHAM TENNANT: Home Thoughts from Laventie

LIEUTENANT ROBERT ERNEST VERNÈDE: A Petition

ROBERT NICHOLS: Fulfillment

The Day's Progress

LIEUTENANT FREDERIC MANNING: The Sign

The Trenches

LT. HENRY WILLIAM HUTCHINSON: Sonnets

CAPTAIN J. E. STEWART: The Messines Road

PRIVATE A. N. FIELD: The Challenge of the Guns

LIEUTENANT GEOFFREY HOWARD: The Beach Road by the Wood

SGT JOSEPH LEE: German Prisoners

SERGEANT LESLIE COULSON: "—But a Short Time to Live"

LIEUTENANT W. N. HODGSON: Before Action

LT DYNELEY HUSSEY: Courage

LIEUTENANT A. VICTOR RATCLIFFE: Hopefulness

MAJOR SYDNEY OSWALD: The Battlefield

CAPTAIN JAMES H. KNIGHT-ADKIN: "On Les Aura!"

CORPORAL ALEXANDER ROBERTSON: To an Old Lady
Seen at a Guesthouse for Soldiers

LIEUTENANT GILBERT WATERHOUSE: The Casualty
Clearing Station

LANCE-CORPORAL MALCOLM HEMPHREY: Hills of Home

JOHN FINLEY: The Red Cross Spirit Speaks

WINIFRED M. LETTS: Chaplain to the Military

EDEN PHILLPOTTS: Song of the Red Cross

LAURENCE BINYON: The Healers

THOMAS L. MARSON: The Red Cross Nurses

ALFRED NOYES: Kilmeny

RUDYARD KIPLING: The Mine Sweepers

HENRY VAN DYKE: Mare Liberum

LIEUTENANT PAUL BEWSHER: The Dawn Patrol

REGINALD MCINTOSH CLEVELAND: Destroyers at Jutland

C. FOX SMITH: British Merchant Service

WINIFRED M. LETTS: To a Soldier in Hospital

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON: Between the Lines

ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER: The White Comrade

ROBERT W. SERVICE: Fleurette

ROBERT FROST: Not to Hold

LIEUTENANT RUPERT BROOKE: The Fallen

JOHN MASEFIELD: The Island of Skyros

LAURENCE BINYON: For the Fallen

CAPTAIN CHARLES HAMILTON SORLEY: Two Sonnets

WALTER DE LA MARE: "How Sleep the Brave!"

EDWARD VERRALL LUCAS: The Debt

CANON AND MAJOR FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT: Rest in Peace

LIEUTENANT ROBERT ERNEST VERNÈDE: To our Fallen

KATHARINE TYNAN: The Veteran

ROBERT BRIDGES: Lord Kitchener

JOHN HELSTON: Kitchener

LIEUTENANT HERBERT ASQUITH: The Fallen Officer

F. W. BOURDILLON: The Debt Unpayable

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON: The Messages

G. ROSTREVOR HAMILTON: A Cross in Flanders

HERMANN HAGEDORN: Revival

OSCAR C. A. CHILD: To a Hero

MORAY DALTON: Rupert Brooke (In Memoriam)

FRANCIS BICKLEY: The Players

CHARLES ALEXANDER RICHMOND: A Track

Josephine Preston Peabody: Harvest Moon

JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY: Harvest Moon: 1916

ADA TYRRELL: My Kid

KATHARINE TYNAN: To the Others

GRACE FALLOW NORTON: The Journey

MARGARET PETERSON: A Mom's Dedication

EDEN PHILLPOTTS: To a Mom

SARA TEASDALE: Spring in Wartime

The Editor wants to express his heartfelt thanks for the help he received in his project from the officials of the British Museum (especially Mr. F.D. Sladen); Professor W. Macneile Dixon from the University of Glasgow; Professor Kemp Smith from Princeton University; Miss Esther C. Johnson from Needham, Massachusetts; and Mr. Francis Bickley from London. He also wants to acknowledge the kindness generously shown by the following authors, periodicals, and publishers for allowing the use of the indicated poems, with all copyright rights reserved by the owner:—

Mr. Francis Bickley and the Westminster Gazette:—"The Performers."

Mr. F.W. Bourdillon and the Spectator:—"The Unpayable Debt."

Dr. Robert Bridges and the London Times:—"Lord Kitchener," and "To the United States."

Mr. Dana Burnet and the New York Evening Sun:—"The Battle of Liège."

Mr. Wilfred Campbell and the Ottawa Evening Journal:—"Langemarck at
Ypres."

Mr. Patrick R. Chalmers and Punch:—"Guns of Verdun."

Mr. Cecil Chesterton and The New Witness:—"France."

Mr. Oscar C.A. Child and Harper's Magazine:—"To a Hero."

Mr. Reginald McIntosh Cleveland and the New York Times:—"Destroyers off Jutland."

Miss Charlotte Holmes Crawford and Scribner's Magazine:—"Long live
France!"

Mr. Moray Dalton and the Spectator:—"Rupert Brooke."

Lord Desborough and the London Times:—"Into Battle," by the late
Captain Julian Grenfell.

Professor W. Macneile Dixon and the London Times:—"To Fellow
Travellers in Greece,"

Mr. Austin, Dobson and the Spectator:—"'When There Is Peace;'"

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the London Times:—"The Guards Came
Through."

Mr. John Finley and the Atlantic Monthly:—"The Road to Dieppe"; Mr.
Finley, the American Red Cross, and the Red Cross Magazine:—"The Red
Cross Spirit Speaks."

Mr. John Freeman and the Westminster Gazette:—"The Return."

Mr. Robert Frost and the Yale Review:—"Not to Keep."

Mr. John Galsworthy and the Westminster Gazette:—"England to Free
Men"; Mr. Galsworthy and the London Chronicle:—"Russia—America."

Mrs. Theodosia Garrison and Scribner's Magazine:—"The Soul of Jeanne d'Arc."

Lady Glenconner and the London Times:—"Home Thoughts from Laventie," by the late Lieutenant E. Wyndham Tennant.

Mr. Robert Grant and the Nation (New York):—"The Superman."

Mr. Hermann Hagedorn and the Century Magazine:—"Resurrection."

Mr. James Norman Hall and the Spectator:—"The Cricketers of
Flanders."

Mr. Thomas Hardy and the London Times:—"Men Who March Away," and
"Then and Now."

Mr. John Helston and the English Review:—"Kitchener."

Mr. Maurice Hewlett:—"In the Trenches," from Sing-Songs of the War
(The Poetry Bookshop).

Dr. A. E. Hillard:—"The Dawn Patrol," by Lieutenant Paul Bewsher.

Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson:—"To the Others" and "The Old Soldier."

Mrs. Florence T. Holt and the Atlantic Monthly:—"England and
America."

Mr. William Dean Howells and the North American Review:—"The
Passengers of a Delayed Submarine."

Lady Hutchinson:—"Sonnets" by the late Lieutenant Henry William
Hutchinson.

Mr. Robert Underwood Johnson:—"To Russia New and Free," from Poems of
War and Peace, published by the author.

Mr. Rudyard Kipling:—"The Choice"; "'For All We Have and Are'"; and
"The Mine-Sweepers." (Copyright, 1914, 1915, 1917, by Rudyard Kipling.)

Captain James H. Knight-Adkin and the Spectator;—"No Man's Land" and "On Les Aura!"

Sergeant Joseph Lee and the Spectator:—"German Prisoners."

Mr. E. V. Lucas and the Sphere:—"The Debt."

Mr. Walter de la Mare and the London Times:—"'How Sleep the Brave!'";
Mr. de la Mare and the Westminster Gazette:—"The Fool Rings his
Bells."

Mr. Edward Marsh, literary executor of the late Rupert Brooke:—"The Soldier" and "The Dead."

Mr. Thomas L. Masson:—"The Red Cross Nurses," from the Red Cross
Magazine.

Lieutenant Charles Langbridge Morgan and the Westminster Gazette:—"To
America."

Sir Henry Newbolt:—"The Vigil"; "The War Films"; "The Toy Band," and "A
Letter from the Front."

Mr. Alfred Noyes:—"Princeton, May 1917"; "The Searchlights" (London Times), "A Prayer in Time of War" (London Daily Mail), and "Kilmeny."

Mr. Will H. Ogilvie:—"Canadians."

Mr. Barry Pain and the London Times:—"The Kaiser and God."

Miss Marjorie Pickthall and the London Times:—"Canada to England."

Canon H.D. Dawnsley and the Westminster Gazette:—"At St. Paul's,
April 20, 1917."

Dr. Charles Alexander Richmond: "A Song."

Lieutenant-Colonel Sir Ronald Ross and the Poetry Review:—"The Death of Peace."

Mr. Robert Haven Schauffler:—"The White Comrade."

Mr. W. Snow and the Spectator:—"Oxford During the War."

Mrs. Grace Ellery Channing Stetson and the New York Tribune:—"Who
Lives?"

Mr. Rowland Thirlmere and the Poetry Review:—"Jimmy Doane."

Mrs. Ada Turrell and the Saturday Review:—"My Son."

Dr. Henry van Dyke and the London Times:—"Liberty Enlightening the
World," and "Mare Liberum"; Dr. van Dyke and the Art World: "The
Name of France."

Mr. Tertius van Dyke and the Spectator:—"Oxford Revisited in
War-Time."

Mrs. Edith Wharton:—"Belgium," from King Albert's Book (Hearst's
International Library Company).

Mr. George Edward Woodberry and the Boston Herald:—"On the Italian
Front, 1916"; Mr. Woodberry, the New York Times and the North
American Review:—"Sonnets Written in the Fall of 1914."

The Athenaeum:—"A Cross in Flanders," by G. Rostrevor Hamilton.

The Poetry Review:—"The Messines Road," by Captain J.E. Stewart; "— But a Short Time to Live," by the late Sergeant Leslie Coulson.

The Spectator:—"The Challenge of the Guns," by Private A.N. Field.

The London Times:—"To Our Fallen" and "A Petition," by the late
Lieutenant Robert Ernest Vernède.

The Westminster Gazette:—"Lines Written in Surrey, 1917," by George
Herbert Clarke.

Messrs. Barse & Hopkins:—"Fleurette," by Robert W. Service.

The Cambridge University Press and Professor William R. Sorley:— "Expectans Expectavi"; "'All the Hills and Vales Along,'" and "Two Sonnets," by the late Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley, from Marlborough and Other Poems.

Messrs. Chatto & Windus:—"Fulfilment" and "The Day's March," by Robert
Nichols.

Messrs. Constable & Company:—"Pro Patria," "Thomas of the Light Heart," and "To Belgium in Exile," by Sir Owen Seaman, from War-Time; "To France" and "Requiescant," by Canon and Major Frederick George Scott, from In the Battle Silences.

Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Company:—"To a Soldier in Hospital" (the Spectator); "Chaplain to the Forces" and "The Spires of Oxford" (Westminster Gazette), by Winifred M. Letts, from Hallowe'en, and Poems of the War; "A Chant of Love for England," by Helen Gray Cone, from A Chant of Love for England, and Other Poems (published also by J.M. Dent & Sons, Limited, London).

Lawrence J. Gomme:—"Italy in Arms," by Clinton Scollard, from Italy in
Arms, and Other Poems.

Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Company:—"To the Belgians"; "Men of Verdun";
"The Anvil"; "Edith Cavell"; "The Healers" and "For the Fallen," by
Laurence Binyon, from The Cause (also published by Elkin Mathews,
London, in The Anvil and The Winnowing Fan); "Headquarters," by
Captain Gilbert Frankau, from A Song of the Guns; "Place de la
Concorde" and "In War-Time," by Florence Earle Coates, from The
Collected Poems of Florence Earle Coates; "Harvest Moon" and "Harvest
Moon, 1915," by Josephine Preston Peabody, from Harvest Moon; "The
Mobilization in Brittany" and "The Journey," by Grace Fallow Norton,
from Roads, and "Rheims Cathedral—1914," by Grace Hazard Conkling,
from Afternoons of April.

John Lane:—"The Kaiser and Belgium," by the late Stephen Phillips.

The John Lane Company:—"The Wife of Flanders," by Gilbert K.
Chesterton, from Poems (also published by Messrs. Burns and Gates,
London); "The Soldier," and "The Dead," by the late Lieutenant Rupert
Brooke, from The Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke (also published by
Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson, London, in 1914, and Other Poems).

Erskine Macdonald:—The following poems from Soldier Poets:—"The
Beach Road by the Wood," by Lieutenant Geoffrey Howard; "Before Action,"
by the late Lieutenant W.N. Hodgson ("Edward Melbourne"); "Courage," by
Lieutenant Dyneley Hussey; "Optimism," by Lieutenant A. Victor
Ratcliffe; "The Battlefield," by Major Sidney Oswald; "To an Old Lady
Seen at a Guest-House for Soldiers," by Corporal Alexander Robertson;
"The Casualty Clearing Station," by Lieutenant Gilbert Waterhouse; and
"Hills of Home," by Lance-Corporal Malcolm Hemphrey.

The Macmillan Company:—"To Belgium"; "Verdun"; "To a Mother," and "Song of the Red Cross," by Eden Phillpotts, from Plain Song, 1914-1916 (also published by William Heinemann, London); "The Island of Skyros," by John Masefield; "Abraham Lincoln Walks at Midnight," from The Congo and Other Poems, by Vachel Lindsay; "O Glorious France," by Edgar Lee Masters, from Songs and Satires; "Christmas, 1915," from Poems and Plays, by Percy MacKaye; "The Hellgate of Soissons," by Herbert Kaufman, from The Hellgate of Soissons; "Spring in War-Time," by Sara Teasdale, from Rivers to the Sea; and "Retreat," "The Messages," and "Between the Lines," by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.

Messrs. Macmillan & Company:—"Australia to England," by Archibald T.
Strong, from Sonnets of the Empire, and "Men Who March Away," by
Thomas Hardy, from Satires of Circumstance.

Elkin Mathews:—"The British Merchant Service" (the Spectator), by C.
Fox Smith, from The Naval Crown.

John Murray:—"The Sign" and "The Trenches" by Lieutenant Frederic
Manning.

The Princeton University Press:—"To France," by Herbert Jones, from A
Book of Princeton Verse.

Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons:—"I Have a Rendezvous with Death," and
"Champagne, 1914-1915," by the late Alan Seeger, from Poems.

Messrs. Sherman, French & Company:—"The William P. Frye" (New York
Times), by Jeanne Robert Foster, from Wild Apples.

Messrs. Sidgwick & Jackson:—"We Willed It Not" (The Sphere), by John
Drinkwater; "Three Hills" (London Times), by Everard Owen, from Three
Hills, and Other Poems; "The Volunteer," and "The Fallen Subaltern," by
Lieutenant Herbert Asquith, from The Volunteer, and Other Poems.

Messrs. Truslove and Hanson:—"A Mother's Dedication," by Margaret
Peterson, from The Women's Message.

Because humans are both combative and peaceful, they've shown in literature, as well as in other art forms, their peaceful and combative feelings. These feelings aren’t necessarily conflicting. War might be the cost of peace, and peace can deteriorate, leading to war. Among the dull and unresponsive pacifist and the overly patriotic person who is quick to anger, the latter is undoubtedly more harmful to the cause of true freedom, yet both are "undesirable citizens." Those who think that peace is an illusion and not genuine unless it's built on justice and freedom will proudly fight, if necessary, for those principles.

For the most part, war poetry, created in this spirit, has highlighted and celebrated qualities like patriotism, bravery, self-sacrifice, initiative, and resilience. When it tends to glorify war itself, it’s mostly because war has unleashed those qualities in exciting and dramatic ways; when it has criticized war, it's because war has taken the lives of passionate and beloved young people and has caused suffering and despair among women and the elderly. But war poets have left the simple arguments to others. They have seen and felt for themselves. Looking at war from different perspectives—sometimes romantic, sometimes realistic, sometimes as celebratory chroniclers, sometimes as thoughtful interpreters, but always with a broad curiosity—they have sung about the fall of Troy, Roman adventures, medieval battles and crusades, the fields of Agincourt and Waterloo, and more modern revolutions. Since Homer, they have expressed martial eloquence through the voices of Drayton, Spenser, Marlowe, Webster, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Scott, Burns, Campbell, Tennyson, Browning, the New England group, and Walt Whitman—just to name a few British and American poets—and they continue to speak sincerely and powerfully today in the works of Kipling, Hardy, Masefield, Binyon, Newbolt, Watson, Rupert Brooke, and the two young soldiers—one British, the other American—who recently lost their lives in active service: Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley, who was killed at Hulluch on October 18, 1915, and Alan Seeger, who was mortally wounded during the charge on Belloy-en-Santerre on July 4, 1916.

There’s no doubt that these various minds and spirits, awakened by the passion and energy of war, and reacting sensitively to both its cruelties and its compassion, have felt a connection through heightened insight and greater selflessness in the face of widespread death. They’ve likely compared the usual materialistic norms in business, politics, education, and religion with the freedom from those norms that almost all soldiers and many civilians experience during wartime; because while war has its harsh and ugly aspects, it hasn’t adopted the rigid customs and behaviors that dull the spirit and lead to passive submission. This unusual sense of recovery and uplift seems to come less from the physical realities of war—which often restrict and limit the individual—and more from the relative spiritual freedom created by the demands of war, if those demands are to be met successfully. A soldier has an extraordinary chance to realize himself, to cleanse and heal himself by overcoming his physical fears; by confronting his moral doubts; by reassessing any beliefs he may have held about life, death, and the universe; and through the quiet selfless dedication he owes to the well-being of his fellow humans and to the cause of his homeland.

Into the fabric of his thoughts and words, whether he is on active duty or not, the poet who interprets war incorporates these intentions and joins his peers in gradually constructing a higher and better foundation of truth, for which no human experience or hope can be overlooked.

As already mentioned, English and American literature have both gained significant contributions, even at this early stage, stemming from the current major conflict, and we can be sure that more noteworthy additions will follow. The current Anthology includes several representative poems created by English-speaking individuals. The editorial approach has been welcoming and human-centered, rather than strictly academic, especially regarding some verses written by soldiers at the Front, which, while they may have limited technical skill in some cases, are nonetheless psychologically captivating as genuine reflections of personal experiences, and will, for that reason, particularly appeal to readers. It goes without saying that several poems in this collection also stand out as artistic works. Additionally, the effort has been made, within the constraints encountered, to present a fairly comprehensive selection of the best contemporary British and American war poetry available. The poems will speak for themselves, and readers will find that in many cases, they do so with sensitive empathy and vibrant power; sometimes, they also possess that quietly intimate familiarity found in Gray's Elegy, which John Masefield highlighted as a key aspect of English poetry during his lectures in America in 1916. However, this quality is not just found in Chaucer and the pre-Romantics and Wordsworth; it also exists in Longfellow and Lowell, Emerson and Lanier, and William Vaughn Moody, as American poetry, after all, is, like English poetry—"with a difference"—originating from the same roots and flowing through similar veins.

The new partnership between the two great Anglo-Saxon nations, which this book partially illustrates, holds incredible promise for both nations and all of civilization. It's hard to say it better than Ambassador Walter H. Page did at the Pilgrims' Dinner in London on April 12, 1917: "We will gain an unbreakable bond from this partnership, and we will have unbreakable mutual responsibilities to humanity moving forward. I doubt there could be another international event with such significant value and lasting impact as this closer relationship." Mr. Balfour echoed the same sentiment during his visit to the United States, saying: "That this great nation is fully committing to this significant struggle, ready for any efforts and sacrifices needed to achieve success for this just cause, is an occasion so fortunate and important that only future historians will truly grasp its significance."

The words of these prominent figures confirm in the realm of international politics the optimistic expectation that Tennyson conveyed in his poem, Hands all Round, which was published in the London Examiner on February 7, 1852:—

"Gigantic daughter of the West,
  We raise our drinks to you across the water,
We know you best, we love you most,
  Aren't you of British blood?
If war's crazy sounds start again,
  Don’t let the oppressive powers
Fight your mother all alone,
  But let your cannons roar with ours.
        Everyone, cheers!
  May God defeat the tyrant's cause!
To our great relatives in the West, my friends,
  And to the great name of England, cheers all around.

"O rise, our strong sons of the Atlantic,
  When war threatens our freedom!
O speak to Europe through your guns!
  They will be understood by kings.
You must not confuse our Queen with those
  Who want to keep their people ignorant;
Our enemies of freedom are her enemies,
  She understands the people she rules.
        Hands all around!
  May God defeat the tyrant's cause!
To our dear brothers in the West, my friends,
  And the great cause of Freedom, let’s raise a toast all around."

They also affirm the essence of the poems in this collection that aim to express the growing friendship between Britons and Americans. "Poets," Shelley said, "are the unrecognized lawmakers of the world," and he meant by lawmakers the influence and direction of the judgments of the human spirit.

August 1917

To the Judge of Right and Wrong
  In Whom fulfillment exists
Our purpose and our strength belong,
  Our belief and sacrifice.

Let the land of freedom celebrate!
  Our old ties are broken;
Once again, we have the timeless choice
  Of right or wrong presented to us.

Not without a significant cost,
  Barely through prayer or tears,
Will we find the path we lost
  In those confused and uncertain years,

But after the fires and the anger,
  But after the searching and the pain,
His Mercy shows us a way
  To live with ourselves again.

In the Gates of Death, rejoice!
  We see and embrace the good—
Earth, bear witness, we’ve made our choice
  For Freedom’s brotherhood.

Then praise the Lord Most High
  Whose Strength has saved us completely,
Who told us to let the Flesh die
  And not the living Soul!

Rudyard Kipling

You, the guardian of the western gate, over Manhattan Bay,
The mists of uncertainty that obscured your face are completely gone:
Your eyes finally see far and clear, you raise your hand
To spread the light of freedom across the world for every country.

No longer do you dream of peace meant just for you,
While friends are fighting for you across the protective sea:
The battle they're fighting is yours; you’ll be lost if they fall;
The rising tide of Prussian pride will sweep over everything unchecked.

O cruel is the desire for conquest in Hohenzollern minds:
The schemes they devise to achieve their aims are tainted with disgrace:
They uphold no faith, respect no law, and worship only raw power;—
They are the enemies of humanity. Rise, Liberty, and strike!

Britain, France, Italy, and newly born Russia,
Have waited for you in the night. Oh, come like the morning does.
Calm and strong and full of faith, America, rise,
With steady hope and powerful support to join your brave Allies.

O dearest country of my heart, home of the great desire,
Cleanse your soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire:
For you must suffer, you must fight, until the warlords are gone,
And all the people raise their heads in liberty and peace.

Henry van Dyke

April 10, 1917

Brothers by blood! Those who started this wrong
  To destroy our community will regret the day
  When they first dared to challenge free people to fight,
And confronted Americans with the Britons.
Now we are committed to achieving human rights;
  Labor and justice will prevail,
  And in a League of Peace—may God help us—
Transform the world, not just fix the old system.

Sure is our hope since the one who led your nation
  Spoke for all humanity, and you stood in awe
Of that great call to work for the world's salvation;
    Clearing your minds of all distracting blindness
  In the vision of Beauty and the Spirit's law,
    Freedom, Honor, and sweet Kindness.

Robert Bridges

April 30, 1917

It is significant, and a matter of public concern
That here at midnight, in our small town,
A grieving figure walks, and won't find peace,
Near the old courthouse, pacing back and forth,

Or by his home, or in shaded yards
He hangs out where his kids used to play;
Or through the market, on the worn-out stones
He walks around until the morning stars fade away.

A tall, sun-tanned guy! His old black suit,
A famous high top hat and a simple worn shawl
Make him the unique, impressive figure that people admire,
The prairie lawyer, the one in charge of us all.

He can't sleep on his hillside now.
He's among us — just like before!
And we who toss and turn, awake for hours
Breathe deeply, and jump, to see him walk by the door.

His head is down. He thinks about people and rulers.
Yeah, when the troubled world cries out, how can he sleep?
Too many villagers are fighting, not knowing why,
Too many homes are crying in fear.

The sins of all the warlords weigh heavy on his heart.
He sees the warships sweeping across every sea.
He bears on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
The bitterness, the foolishness, and the pain.

He can't relax until a new beginning arrives
—The bright hope of a free Europe:
A community of sensible people, the Workers' Earth
Bringing lasting peace to Cornland, the Alps, and the Sea.

It breaks his heart that kings still have to kill,
That all his hard work for humanity
Feels like it’s been for nothing. And who will bring true peace
So he can rest on his hill again?

Vachel Lindsay

I saw her first next to the Boston Light
At anchor; she had just arrived, turned her head,
And let her ropes creak and clatter down.
I was close to where the hawse-pipes fed
The cable from her tilting bow,
I moved up with the swell, shut off the engine, and stopped
In my old launch to take a look at her.
She had come in light, skimming up the Bay
Like a white ghost with her sails filled;
And all her elegant lines from bow to stern
Sang with the wind; it felt like she floated
In the morning air like those thin clouds that transform
Into tall ships when the sunrise lifts the clouds
From calm sea routes.

There, in smoke-stained coats,
Lay lined up fishing boats, worn-out cargo ships,
Tugs and ferries. Oh, it was nice in that dark, bustling place
To see the Frye proudly making her way
Like some old queen we had almost forgotten
Returning home. A little further up the Bay
The Fort was green, since it was springtime then;
The wind was fresh, filled with the fragrant scent
Of the New England coast that finally
Emerges, late April, from a frozen sleep.
The Statehouse shimmered on old Beacon Hill,
Gold in the sunlight…. It was all so beautiful for a while;
But she was the most beautiful—this great square-rigged ship
That had sailed in from some faraway happy island
From the shores of the Hesperides.

They caught her on a South Atlantic road
Stuck in calm waters, and found her hold full of wheat;
"Wheat's illegal," they said, and blew her hull
To bits, killing one of our sturdy fleet,
Quickly shrinking, from the big old sailing ships
That handle trade for us on the open sea
And sailed out from every harbor in the States.
It wasn't legal, so it seems odd to me—
A big mistake. Her keel's hit the bottom now
And her four masts sunk deep, deep down
To Davy Jones' locker. The damp seaweed will take root
On her decaying decks, and the swirling currents sweep
Through the torn sails; but never, never again
Will her crew stand ready to brace and adjust,
Nor seabirds meet her as she thrashes up
Against the wind on the Gulf Stream's stormy edge;
Never again will she face a northeast gale
Or like a phantom appear, gliding silently,
And safely return beyond the Boston Light,
To make the harbor happy because she's back.

Jeanne Robert Foster

Mother and child! Even though the ocean waves
  Will crash between us, we are connected,
  Bound by timeless memories, and no one
Can miss the pulse of deep loyalty.
A hundred years have gone by since we sat at your knee
  Learning the words of the free, igniting the passion
  That wouldn’t accept your threats, when father
And grandfather pushed injustice back to you.

But the years have brought equality:
  The past is left behind; won't the future bring
  A stronger bond, from which will arise
Mankind's greatest hope? In the dark times of struggle
People gave their lives for the dream of Freedom
Whose sacrifices were made for this greater existence.

Florence T. Holt

When the fire dims in the fireplace, and night has wrapped the room in its embrace, and winter stands cold and harsh outside the window, when the hands have turned to the last page of the book and friends are sleeping, thought, like an old stringed instrument returning to familiar music, often makes the lips move in prayer, for us to hold onto the memory of spring and the violet.

And as our eyesight dims with age,
The spirit moves faster than the body,
Feels at ease, knows it will meet
God at the end of hardships, that the bleak
Final stages of old age lead beyond sorrow
To endless happy youth. There is peace
In returning home, where at last the tired
Will find renewal, and their long fight will end.

So, at this time, when the Old World is suffering,
Beyond the pain, the struggle to breathe
Hard fought, beyond the threats of death,
Over graves and years, the eager spirit reaches out.
First, the old must pass away; then shall come
New energy within us. Brother, we will create
Incredible discoveries and embrace
The fruits of hope, and love will come alive.

Charles Langbridge Morgan

A song of hate is a song from Hell;
Some people really know how to sing it well.
Let them sing it loud and for a long time,
We lift our hearts with a more uplifting rhyme:
We lift our hearts to Heaven high,
Singing the glory of the one we love,—
          England!

Glory of thought and glory of action,
Glory of Hampden and Runnymede;
Glory of ships that aimed for distant dreams,
Glory of swords and glory of spirits!
Glory of songs soaring like birds,
Immortal glory of enchanting words;
Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson,
Tragic glory of Gordon and Scott;
Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney,
Transcendent glory that never fades,—
Hers is the story, hers be the glory,
            England!

You can break her beautiful heart;
But the spirit of England can’t be killed!
Drop a bomb on St. Paul’s dome—
Do you really think the Admiral’s fame will fade?
Take the stone from the chancel floor—
Do you think Shakespeare will be forgotten?
Where’s the mighty shot that can take down
Wordsworth walking the old green hills?
Stamp on the red rose on the ground—
Keats is Beauty while the earth keeps turning!
Bind her, grind her, burn her with fire,
Cast her ashes into the sea—
She will escape, she will strive,
She will rise to set men free:
She will rise with sacred defiance,
Illuminating the lives yet to come;
Supernatural spirit, eternal brilliance,
              ENGLAND!

Helen Gray Cone

Not since Wren's Dome has it resonated with human prayers
  Have angels leaned in curiosity from Heaven
  At such a surge of intercession made,
Here where today one soul is shared by two nations,
And in harmony send up through the trembling air
  Their promises to fight like Honor has never fought
  Until the Lords of hell are pushed back to hell,
And Life and Peace can thrive beautifully again.

This is the day of a strong conscience,
  The day when the East meets the West
    To fight for love and the freedom to speak
Against the terrible wrongs that can't be fixed;
  Today brings hope for a stronger bond of brotherhood,
    And Christ, not Odin, is celebrated as the Lord.

Hardwicke Drummond Rawnsley

Often I think of you, Jimmy Doane,—
You who, carefree, came to my house
Three autumns, to hunt and eat a grouse!

As I sat alone in this quiet room,
My mind was filled with the horrors of war
And not with the anticipation of a visitor.

I had eaten food that had lost its flavor;
My spirit was numb and I wished you were here,—
When, all of a sudden, I felt you close.

Placing that chair where you used to sit,
I looked at my book:—Three years today
Since you laughed in that seat and I heard you say—

"My country stands with you, no matter what happens:
America—Britain—these two are alike
In bravery and integrity; they support

"The rights of humanity!" Then you took my hand
With a brotherly grip, and you made me feel
Something that time would definitely show.

You were attractive and tall; you had strong arms,
And the charm of kindness was mixed with your strength;
You were generous, smart, and self-assured.

There was something in your hopes that countless lives
Have been lost to create; your heart was filled
With the breath of God that can never be silenced.

A living symbol of power, you spoke
Of the work needed in the world to make
Life beautiful: yes, and my heart aches

To think about how you, at the onset of War,
Decided that your unwavering spirit would soar
With the eagles of France as their proud partner.

You were America’s true self, my dear boy—
The first quick son of your bright, free country
To answer the call of the Inner Command—

To picture its spirit in such rare actions
As supported the bravery of France, who knows
That the heart of America resonates with her sorrow.

For a little bit of yeast makes the whole batch rise!
Usually, when we take the time to look
For the essence of a community, we discover something unique,

Brave man is its flower and symbol, who
Dares to speak the words that choke
The throats of weaker, more timid people.

You flew for the western eagle—and fell
Doing amazing things for your country's pride:
For the beauty and peace of life, you died.

Britain and France have cherished in their hearts
Your memory; yes, and forever you share
Their love with their lost leaders of the skies.

Invisible now, in that empty seat,
You sit, having come through the clouds to me,
Quick as a message from across the sea.

My home is always open to you:
Dear spirit, come by often and you'll find
A warm welcome, where minds can connect!

And may we sit together one day
Quietly here, when a word is said
To bring new joy to our dead,

Knowing your dream is no longer just a dream;
And witnessing a significant agreement
Your vision created as an everlasting reality.

Rowland Thirlmere

Here Freedom stood by fallen friends and enemies,
And, before the anger faded or that sunset ended,
Looked through the ages; then, with bright eyes,
Laid them to wait for the future, side by side.

(Lines for a monument to the American and British soldiers of the Revolutionary War who died on the Princeton battlefield and were buried in one grave.)

Now, gardens lit by lamps shine in the blue dusk
  Through dogwood, red and white;
And around the gray quadrangles, line by line,
  The windows are filled with light,
Where Princeton calls to Magdalen, tower to tower,
  Twin lanterns of the law;
And those cream-white magnolia branches shelter
  The halls of "Old Nassau."

The dark bronze tigers crouch on either side
  Where redcoats used to pass;
And around the bird-friendly house where Mercer died,
  And violets shade the grass,
By Stony Brook that used to run so red,
  But now sings of friendship,
To nourish the old enemy's harvest fifty times over
  The green earth welcomes the plow.

Through this May night, if one great ghost should roam
  With eyes full of memories,
Where that old battlefield smiles away
  Its blood-soaked past,
If Washington were to walk, where friend and foe
  Rest and forget what’s done,
You can bet his unquenched heart would jump to know
  Their souls are finally connected.

Make sure he waits in shadowy yellow and blue,
  Where those faint lilacs sway.
He bows his head to bless, as dreams come true,
  The promise of that grave;
Then, with a greater hope than thought can grasp,
  Touching his old sword,
Prays for that stronger kingdom of God within man:
  "Hasten your kingdom, Lord.

"Land of our hope, land of the singing stars,
Type of the world to come,
The vision of a world free from wars
Takes shape, takes life from you;
Where all the conflicting nations of this earth,
Beneath the all-blessing sun,
Bring the new music of humanity to life,
And unite the whole world."

And those old friends gather around him there,
  Old rivals, standing together,
With eyes shining like stars in the brave night air,
  And young, just like when they died,
To hear your bells, O stunning Princeton towers,
  Chime for the world's freedom.
They see you cutting through flowers like gray swords,
  And smile, from souls at peace.

Alfred Noyes

England! where the sacred flame
    Burns before the innermost shrine,
Where the lips that cherish your name
    Dedicate their hopes and yours,
Where the banners of your fallen
Weave their shadows overhead,
Watch beside your arms tonight,
Pray that God defends what's right.

Think about when tomorrow comes
    War will take charge of everything,
You will hear the beat of drums,
    You will hear the trumpet's call.
Now, before your silence regrets,
Connect with the voice of truth;
England! on your knees tonight
Pray that God defends what's right.

Single-minded and unafraid,
All your heroes came here,
On this altar's steps were laid
Gordon's life and Outram's fame.
England! If your will still be
By their great example shown,
Here beside your arms tonight,
Pray that God defends the Right.

So when morning comes,
Rise to conquer or to fall,
Joyfully hear the rolling drums,
Joyfully answer the trumpets' call,
Then let Memory speak to your heart:
"England! What you were, you still are!"
Prepare yourself with your ancient strength,
Go forth! And may God defend what's right!

Henry Newbolt

For everything we have and who we are,
For the future of our kids,
Rise up and face the fight.
The enemy is at the door!
Our world has disappeared
In reckless destruction.
There's nothing left today
But weapons and flames and rubble.

Though we may all part,
    The old rules remain:
    "Keep your heart strong,
    Lift your hand with strength,"

Once again we hear the word
That sickened the earth of the past:
"No law except the sword
Unsheathed and out of control,"
Once again it brings humanity together.
Once again the nations go
To confront, struggle, and restrain
A crazed and relentless enemy.
Comfort, contentment, joy—
The slowly earned rewards of the ages—
They vanished overnight,
Only we remain
To face the bare days
In quiet strength,
Through dangers and distress
Renewed and re-renewed.

Though all we created is gone,
    The old rules remain:
    "Stay calm and keep your heart,
    In strength raise your hand."

No simple dreams or false promises
Will get us to our goal,
But the hard sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul.
There’s only one task for everyone—
Each person must give their life.
Who stands if freedom falls?
Who dies if England lives?

Rudyard Kipling

Men of my kin, you English men!
From foggy hill and foggy marsh,
From cottage, town, field, and moor,
Come in—before I close the door!
Into my courtyard paved with stones
That bear the names, that hold the bones,
Of none but English men who came
Free of their lives, to protect my name.

I am your homeland that raised you
No forced heart, no forced mind;
I wave a flag on every ocean
Around this old Earth, of Freedom!
I am the Land that wears a crown;
The sun rises, the sun sets—
And no one can say of me,
Mine is a kind that is not free.

I have a wreath! My forehead holds
A hundred leaves—a hundred years old.
I never heard the words: "You must!"
And will my wreath turn to dust?
Free people! The door is still open;
From northern star to southern star,
Oh you who count and you who dig,
Come in—before my clock strikes twelve!

John Galsworthy

England, in this great battle you're heading into
  Because, where Honor calls you, you must go,
Be glad, no matter what happens, at least to know
      You have a just cause.

Peace was your concern; before the nations' court
  You advocated for her cause and aimed for her goals;
But not for her benefit, considering who you are,
      Could you be tempted and swayed.

Others may reject the commitment of land to land,
  May use the brute sword to tarnish a noble past;
But by the promise you made,
      Thank God, you still hold strong!

Forward, then, to face the danger of the sea
  With cheerful smiles and a sparkle in your eyes,
Steadfast and confident, like those who uphold
      Their honored reputation high.

And we, who have the task of watching and waiting,—
  Always hopeful, strong in faith and prayer,—
We ask what gift we can dedicate,
      What simple service we can share.

To strengthen our spirits against the temptation of comfort;
  To endure quietly even when our hearts are hurting;
To give everything we have without thinking about the expense,
      For the greater need of others;—

To go our separate paths, calm and collected;
  To silence all the noisy chatter of the street;
With steady composure to handle the pressure
      Of victory or loss;

This is our role, as we serve you best,
  So we affirm their strength and their pride,
Your warrior sons, to whom in this great test
      Our fortunes we trust.

Owen Seaman

August 12, 1914

A sudden burst of song in the clear sky—
  The little lark praising his master, the sun;
  Over the corn, the lazy waves flow;
Under the eaves, chatting sleepily,

Doves droop or wander; the quick waterfly
  Ripples the pool; and flowers, vibrant and dull,
  Rose, bluebell, rhododendron, one by one,
The adventurous bees buzz around busily.

Ah, who can capture this peaceful beauty
  In happy verse?—there's no way to measure it;
But looking at her heart, we can understand
  Why men fight fiercely for England in brutal battles,
Chasing dreams, caught in Death's tight embrace,
  Of English daisies swaying in English valleys.

George Herbert Clarke

Because for once the sword broke in her hand,
  The words she spoke seemed lost for a moment;
All that was wrong was bold, and in every land
  The tyrants walked openly without disguise.

The waters turned to blood, as the Star
  Of evil Fate rose, denying all escape.
The rulers struck, the weak cried "War!"
  The loan sharks stole, the naked cried "Peace!"

And her own feet were trapped in nets of gold,
  And her own soul desecrated by groups that squirm,
And little men climbed her high places and sold
  Her honor to the vulture and the worm.

And she looked broken, and they thought she was dead,
  The powerful, so bold against the vulnerable.
Have you said your final clever arguments,
  O group of the oppressed? Then it’s her turn to speak.

Clear the thick fog from her dimmed eyes,
  As the fog slowly cleared over Valmy,
Once more her hands in shocked amazement
  Grip the walls of Hell.

Cecil Chesterton

Give us a name to inspire the mind
With the bright ideas that guide humanity,
The pride of knowledge, the joy of creativity,—
A name that represents a glorious role
In the long, hard struggle and the tough fight
Of the human race to move forward
From the feudal darkness into the light
Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Rights,—
A name like a star, a name of light—
        I give you France!

Give us a name that gets the blood pumping,
With a warmer vibe and a faster rush,—
A name like a trumpet’s sound, sharp and bright,
And sweet like silver, strong like iron,
That rallies three million men to stand,
Ready to march, steady to confront
The enemies who dare to tarnish that name,—
A name that resonates like a battle anthem.
        I give you France!

Give us a name to stir the heart
With the power that deep sorrows bring,
A name that talks about the blood spilled
To save humanity from the grip of the sword,—
A name that invites the world to join
In the weight of sacrificial struggle
Where the issue at stake is the freedom of the world
And the people's rule everywhere,—
A name like a promise, a name like a prayer.
        I give you France!

Henry van Dyke

Franceline got up in the early gray light,
And her heart would dance even as she knelt to pray,
Because her man Michel had a day off,
Fighting for France.

She said her prayer by the cradle,
And with the baby’s hands folded in hers, she cried:
“If I have just one prayer, dear, crucified
        Christ—save France!

"But if I have two, then, by Mary's grace,
Carry me safely to the meeting point,
Let me see my dear love's face one more time,
        Save him for France!"

She sang softly to her baby: "Oh, how happy he'll be,
Little three-months-old, to see you!
For, 'I would choose a son over gold,' he wrote,
        'A son for France.'

"Come on, be a good little grasshopper,
We're going to see your dad Michel,
But I won't say where because I’m afraid you’ll spill the beans,
        Little pigeon of France!

"Six days off and a year apart!
But what can you do? In those six days,
Heaven was created," said Franceline,
        "Heaven and France."

She arrived in the town with no name,
To the marching soldiers in the street she came,
And she held her boy up high like a flickering flame
            Burning for France.

Fresh from the battlefields and covered in dirt,
Quietly they march like a performance;
"But why do we need music? My heart keeps the beat—
            Long live France!"

His regiment is coming. So, where is he?
"There’s dust in my eyes, so I can’t see,—
Is that my Michel to your right,
            Soldier of France?"

Then out of the ranks a comrade fell,—
"Yesterday—it was a piece of shell—
And he whispered your name, did your poor Michel,
            Dying for France."

The sound of the troops marching on the pavement felt like
A woman's heart grieving its last joy,
As she raised her boy to the flag and cried:
            "Long live France!"

Charlotte Holmes Crawford

She didn’t enter the Presence like a martyred saint would, Crowned, in a white robe, and worshipping, completely speechless,—

She stood like a straight young soldier, confident, brave, and strong, Asking a favor from her captain in the sudden silence of the drum.

She said: "Have I stayed too long in this happy place,
With these joyful spirits who, comforted, forget what sadness is
In that world whose hard steps they climbed to reach this."

"But look, a cry has shattered the peace I've been in for so long,
Like a trumpet's call at Heaven's gate from a fearless messenger,—
A million voices in one cry, 'Where is the Maid, the Maid?'

"I had forgotten from too much joy that old task of mine,
But I have heard a certain word break the divine chant,
Have watched a banner shine and expand before my eyes as a sign.

"I would go back to my land caught in the chaos of war,
I would throw down my robe and crown that no longer bring me joy,
And wear the armor I once knew, the brave sword I carried."

"And warrior angels will throw open the gates of Heaven,
And newly-deceased souls whose lives were lost like leaves in the bloodshed of war
Will cross their swords above us and cheer us on as we ride,

"For with me rides that soldier saint, Saint Michael with his sword,
And I will be at his right side, a page next to his lord,
And men will follow like quick blades to earn their guaranteed reward.

"Let me respond to this call of mine, even if the outcome may be
The raw shame, the scorching fire, the final, lasting pain;
I would walk down that path singing where the stakes are waiting for me.

"Let the fire be at my feet and the smoke above my head; I want to shine like a torch to light the way my heroes walked; My Captain! Oh, my Captain, let me go back!" she said.

Theodosia Garrison

You’ve become a forge of bright white fire,
A melting pot of molten steel, O France!
Your sons are stars gathering for a new dawn
And fading in light for you, O glorious France!
They go through changes like meteors with a song
That tells every island and every continent
Life isn’t about comfort, wealth, or fame,
Or cozy homes, friendships, wives, or kids,
Or love, or the joy of youth, or the strength of manhood,
Or countless days spent on a chosen task,
Or deserved recognition, or the routine
Of daily work, or the crowns and wreaths
Of seventy years.

These aren’t all of life,
Oh France, whose sons stand in trenches amid the rolling thunder
Of cannons where the dead
Choke the blood-soaked ice. But to these
Prophetic and entranced souls, life is vision,
And the sharp thrill of destined struggle,
And seeing loss as gain,
And unraveling mysteries with brightened eyes
In fiery shock and dazzling pain before
The radiant splendor of Death's face,
Like a great light beside a shadowy sea;
And in a high will's intense effort,
Where the warmed spirit finds its greatest strength
And is no longer afraid, and in the flash
Of blue lightning when the hidden essence
And changing meaning of man's spiritual worth
And mystical significance in time
Are suddenly distilled to one clear drop
That reflects both earth and heaven.

This is life
Flaming to heaven in a minute's time
When the breath of battle blows the smoldering spark.
And across these seas
We who shout Peace and value life and hold on
To cities, happiness, or daily work
For daily bread, or follow the long routine
Of seventy years, do not taste the terrible wine
That you drink, who empty and toss the cup
Empty and ringing after the feast is over;
Or have it shaken from your hand by the sight
Of God among the olive trees.

As Joan of Arc stood among the apple trees
With sacred joy, she first heard the voices, then
Obeying, she rushed into battle at Orleans
In a field of spears, living her dream and dying in fire,
You, France, have heard the voices and have lived
The dream and understood its meaning,
And unraveled its riddle: how the soul of man
Can focus itself into one grand purpose
Like a clear lens, how it craves the cup
Of deepest truth, and how its bitterest gall
Becomes sweet through the soul's surrender.

And you say:
Take days to repeat, stretch your hands
For a fake renewal of the usual things:
The worn path, the chair by the window,
The busy street, the job, the regular sleep,
And waking up to the job, or many springs
Of lifted clouds, blue water, blooming fields—
The prison-house feels just as close, the feast
A place of memories longing for senses numbed
Down to the dusty end where pitiful Time
Weary cries Enough!

Edgar Lee Masters

Those who have stood up for your cause when darkness surrounded you,
Those who have pushed through the shadows and found you shining,
Those who have held on to their faith in your courage and strength,
Your spirit, your honor, your strength for a tough time,
Now can celebrate that they see you in light and glory,
Facing whatever may come as the end of the story
In calm resilience, with steady eyes fixed on tomorrow—
The dawn that is heavy with blood and death and sorrow.
And whether victory crowns you, O eternal France,
Or whether the smoke and darkness of a hellish night
Surround you, us, and the enemy; and all treasures
Wash away in the floods of war into endless depths—
No matter what happens: in this hour, all those who are near you
And everyone who has loved you, they rise and salute and honor you!

Herb Jones

[Since the bombing of Strasbourg on August 14, 1870, her statue in Paris, which symbolizes Alsace, has been draped in mourning by the French people.]

Near where the royal victims fell
In the past, caught in the swell
Of a ruthless tide
Of human passion, deep and wide:
There where we two
A Nation's later sorrow felt—
Today, O friend! I stood
Among a self-governed crowd
That by neither sound nor word
Revealed how deeply its heart was stirred,

A memory that time could never erase—
A memory of grief—
Like a heavy silence hung over the place;
And people sighed deeply, as if searching for relief
From a powerful feeling
That wouldn’t express itself, though held back for too long.

One could sense that joy was approaching—
A deep joy that seemed to be afraid—
Shining in eyes that had been lifeless,
As everyone with emotion stared
At the Strasburg figure, elevated
Above us—grieving, lovely!

Then someone stood at the base of the statue and spoke—
Men didn’t need to ask what the word was;
Each person felt the message in their heart,
Written for them by Despair,
That always flows in moving phrases
From the Invalides and Père Lachaise—
It seemed in vain, alas!
But now, as France gazed at the image there,
Hope returned Alsace back to her.

A deeper silence fell over the crowd:
A sound—the lightest—felt too loud
(Would, friend, you had been there!)
As the speaker stood up,
Took from her, layer by layer,
The sad black cloth, worn and old,
Proudly revealing her,
And with a gentle touch
That warm feeling shows,
Amid tears that no one could fully control,
Placed the Tricolor in her hand,
And kissed her on both cheeks!

Florence Earle Coates

What is the gift we have given you, Sister?
  What is the trust we have placed in your hands?
Hearts of our bravest, our best, and our dearest,
  Blood of our blood we have planted in your land.

What will the harvest always be, Sister?
  What will grow from the seeds that are planted?
Freedom and peace and goodwill among nations,
  Love that will connect us with love of our own.

Bright is the path that is unfolding in front of us,
  Upward and onward it rises through the night;
No sword will break the bonds that connect us
  Leading the world to the fullness of light.

Sorrow has made you more beautiful, Sister,
  Nobler and purer than ever before;
We who are shaped by sorrow and pain
  Celebrate you as sister and queen forever.

Frederick George Scott

Who's there? Who's walking by up there?
Who moves—what stirs in the startled air?
What whispers, excites, rejoices up there?
Who's there?
        "The Flags of France."

What kind of wind is this on a still night,
That feels as gentle as a lover's kiss,
That drifts through the night like bugle calls,
That streams like a flag from a lance,
That rustles, that sways?
        "The Flags of France."

What deeply moves, what gently stirs,
Like a dignified lady in a dance,
When every man’s gaze is in love with hers
And must follow?
        "The Flags of France."

What speaks to the heart—and the heart listens,
Says something, and the soul follows the message,
Calls out, and all the years move ahead,
And the world progresses along with France—with France?
Who called?
        "The Flags of France."

What flies—a glory, through the night,
While the legions flow—a line of light,
And men fall to the left and fall to the right,
But they do not fall?
        "The Flags of France."

Who's there? Who's coming? What’s approaching there?
What silent chaos, what energy in the air
Stifles the breath in the throat, steals the blood from the heart?
In a blaze of darkness, to the unheard rhythm
Of an unseen drum and ghostly feet,
Without the shine of rifles or the flash of bayonets,
They come—they're approaching. Who is it? (Quiet! Listen!)
"Who's there?"
        "The Flags of France."

Uncover your head and kneel—kneel down,
A king walks by, without a crown,
Let the proud tears fall, but let your heart be strong:
The Greatest of All is passing through,
On its endless journey in the endless Plan:
"Who goes there?"
        "The Spirit of Man."

"O Spirit of Man, move forward! Push ahead!"
And those who are in charge, who take the lead?
Kneel down!
        The Flags of France.

Grace Ellery Channing

Paris, 1917

O Race that Caesar knew,
That earned stern Roman praise,
What land doesn't envy you
The laurel of these days?

You built your cities rich
Around each towering hall,—
Outside, the statued niche,
Inside, the painted wall.

Your busy docks filled with ships; your marketplaces
Competed with beautiful Venice.
Peace and her renowned arts
Belonged to you: even as the tides ebb and flow.

Of Europe's war-torn land
Dark fields and stained soil,
From blood and smoke arose
Peace and her fruitful work.

Yet when the challenge sounded,
"The War-Lord is here; make way!"
Fearless, you jumped to arms
Against the odds of disaster.

Like your own Damien
Who went to that leper's island
To die as an ordinary man
Among men with peaceful smiles,

So strong in your faith that you dared
To stand up to the giant, ignore
Shamefully being saved,
Though crushed, ruined, and torn,

And in your faith grew strong
And struck, and struck again,
Until those shocked enemies
Staggered from their piles of dead,

The belief that the free spirit,
Untaught by force to back down,
Through challenges and sorrow
Triumphs and will continue to triumph.

Still your frontier stands
The host that knew no fear,
Your small, stubborn land's
Nameless, immortal dead.

Laurence Binyon

Belgium regrets nothing

Not with her ruined silver towers,
Not with her cities ashamed and torn,
Let the everlasting flames die
That form the home from the tent.

Wherever people are strong and free,
She will maintain her fearless presence,
And without a home, to great nations be
The source of all that makes them great.

Edith Wharton

Champion of human dignity, let us wash
  Your feet and tend to your wounds on our knees.
  Even though cowardly hands have nailed you to the tree
And spilled your innocent blood and dug your grave,
Rejoice and live! Your banner will fly—
  As long as people have the strength to endure and be free—
  A golden flame of purest Liberty,
Proud as the dawn and courageous as the sunset.

Belgium, where respect for what is right resides
  Above all ideals; where your destiny
And your divine patience and your strength
  Grow most sacred in the eyes of humanity,
You shine like a star in this stormy night
  No longer small, but infinitely great.

Eden Phillpotts

[Lines dedicated to one of her priests, whose words inspired them.]

Land of despair, Mother of sorrow,
  Crying for your beauty damaged and torn,
Your children thrown onto the spears,
  Your altars shattered, your homes forlorn,
Where Spring holds no promise of renewal,
And Love speaks only in a long Goodbye!

Ah, precious tears, and each one a pearl,
  Whose value—for we trust in God
Who witnessed them fall in that chaotic swirl
  Of raging flame and stinking dust—
The destroyer with his life shall pay,
When Justice finally claims her Day.

O tried and true, whose record remains
  Written in blood too deep to fade,
Stay strong! Never in our hands
  Will the avenging sword be held back
Until you are healed of all your pain,
And return with Honor to your own again.

Owen Seaman

May 19, 1915

Low and brown barns, patched up and worn out,
  Where I had seven sons until today,
A little pile of hay your spurs have scattered….
  This is not Paris. You’ve lost your way.

You, looking at your sword and realizing it's fragile,
  Shocked at the unexpected outcome of your plan,
Who, trembling and pushing through barriers, not at all,
  Will never again face the death door of Sedan—

Must I call you a claimant for more than just the killing,
  Paying you a penny for each son you take down?
Man, even if the whole world were made of gold, it wouldn't be enough
  For what you have lost. And how can I repay you?

What’s the cost of that red spark that grabbed my attention
  From a nice farm that’s always been unnamed?
What’s the cost of that dead man they brought to me?
  Because other dead men don’t look the same.

How should I pay for this sad carved steeple
  Where you broke what you will never understand?
How should I pay you, wretched people?
  How should I pay you all that you are owed?

Unhappy, can I give you back your honor?
  Even though I forgave, would any man really forget?
While all the vast green land has trampled on her
  The betrayal and fear from the night we met.

Not anymore in revenge or in forgiveness
  An old woman negotiates for a bean that belongs to her.
You have no promise to break: no heart to toughen.
  Move on and succeed. You've lost your edge.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A wind is blowing through the world! The darkness is fading;
The chains that once crushed people's flesh and bones are now rusting,
Feet no longer walk on the damp prison stones,
And slavery has been lifted from your hearts.

A breeze in the world! Oh Company
Of shadowed Russia, watching for so long in vain,
Now you'll see the shadow of Russia's suffering
Shrink away across a summer sky.

A wind in the world! Our God shall be
In all the future left, no royal puppet
Adorned with a terrifying scepter, steel, and robe,
But walk the earth—a person, in Compassion.

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

A breeze in the world! And doubts are scattered
To dust along, and the old stars appear—
Stars of a faith that the Pilgrim Fathers valued
A field of shattered spears and flowers spread.

A wind is blowing through the world! Now skipping out
On your true self is over; she moves forward again,
Steadfast, and from her heart
A great America cries: Death to Tyranny!

A wind is blowing through the world! And we’ve come together, From sea to sea; across all the lands Vision finally stirs, and Freedom stands With shining wings, smiling and inviting us home!

John Galsworthy

Land of the Martyrs—of the martyred dead
    And martyred living—now of noble fame!
  For a long time, you were the saddest of the nations, bound
    To Sorrow like fire to flame,
Not yet had relentless History recorded Teuton shame.

You knew all the sadness of hope postponed.
    Between God and Russia, wrong had created such a barrier
  That neither could hear the other anymore.
    Seen through the cloud, the child's familiar star,
That once brought Heaven closer now made it feel farther away.

Land of the Breaking Dawn! No more looking back
    To that long night that can never be again:
  The sunless dungeon and the path of exile.
    Let the world's terrifying dreams fade away.
To gentle April, cruel March is now a thing of the past.

Yet—of the past, there's one sacred relic left:
    That boundary marker between Russia and despair,—
  Placed where the dead can watch over his grave,—
    Kissed by him with his last breath of Russian air.
Keep it to show the world what heroes can still dare.

Land of New Hope, no longer in a minor key,
No more the lonely songs of exile;
From now on, your tears will be tears of memory.
Sing, with the joy that the joyless would have felt
Who willingly sacrificed their own for this imagined happiness.

Land of warmth and friendly hands,
    Play the free song; no more the silent notes!
  Let the equal record stand forever—
    A thousand winters for this Spring of Springs,
That, to a troubled world, through you, brings a thousand years of hope.

On your clean white tablets, free from royal taint,
    What message for the future will you write!—
  The People’s Law, the protection of their rule,
    And watchful Liberty, of ancient strength,
And Brotherhood, which can only lead to the highest peak.

Take, then, the joyful overflow of our hearts,
You, newly born daughter of Democracy,
Whose arrival makes the eager earth shine.
Soon, the happy skies will see your proud new flag,
And hear your sung hymns of hope for a new and free Russia.

Robert Underwood Johnson

April 1917

Of all my dreams by night and day,
    One dream will always come back,
The dream of Italy in May;
    The sky a vibrant blue jar
    Where amber lights linger and glow;
The doves around San Marco's square,
    The towering Campanile,
    The giants marking the hour,
        The palaces, the sparkling lagoons,
The gondolas drifting here and there
        On the tide that sways and sways.

The domes of San Antonio,
    Where Padua rests among her mulberry trees,
Lies along the crescent flow of the Adige,
    Under Verona's balconies;
    Wealthy Florence of the Medicis;
Sienna's star-like streets that rise
    From hill to hill; Assisi well
    Recalling the holy charm
        Of passionate St. Francis; with her crown
Of battlements, shaped by time,
        Stern old Perugia looking down.

Then, mother of great empires, Rome,
    City of the majestic past,
That over distant stretches of foreign seas
    The shadows of her eagles cast,
    Imperious still; looming, vast,

The Colosseum's curved outline;
    Pillars, arches, and colonnades;
    St. Peter's holy shadow,
        And Hadrian's tomb by the wandering Tiber;
The ruins on the Palatine
        With all their memories of past times.

And Naples, with her sapphire bay
And her beautiful shoreline;
Above her, like a stark demon,
The dark, fiery mountain looms
Menacing, just like in the past;
Fair Capri with her cliffs and caves;
Salerno lounging among her vines
And olives, and the ruined shrines
Of Paestum where the gray ghosts walk,
And where the wild rose still sways
As it did when Greek girls crowned it.

But listen! What sound disturbs the ear,
    My Italy, my Italy?
You who were once wrapped in peace, the mist
    Of beauty spread over you!
    Yet since the struggle must come,
I who have wandered through the night
    With Dante, known Petrarch's Laura,
    Seen the breezy groves of Vallombrosa,
        Met Michelangelo and Raphael,
Against destructive forces
        In this dark hour must wish you well!

Clinton Scollard

"I will die cheering, if I have to die;
  So my last breath will write on my lips
  Long live Italy! when my spirit slips
Down into the great darkness from the mountain sky;
And those who see me where I lie
  Will whisper: 'Look at him! How his spirit moves
  From glory into glory! The shadow
Of death is defeated! Look, his cry of victory!'

"Live on my lips, my Italy,
  The sacred death cry of my frozen body!
Let your precious light shine from my dead form
  And deliver your message to those who pass by:
'Look! even though heaven has blessed my skies,
My sons' love makes my land sacred forever!'"

George Edward Woodberry

By all the things done for Your beloved glory,
  By all the blood shed to meet Your needs,
  By all the lives You’ve freed from bondage,
By all the dreams You’ve inspired in us anew;
By all the rewards that English ancestors have passed down
  Of highest vision and noblest actions,
  By all the suffering You’ve endured as part of God’s plan
For testing and strength, our fate is tied to Yours.

Your spirit still lives in our hearts and voices,
  We owe our honor and life only to You,
    And if we’re no longer Your dependents
But strive for the strength of a nation with men and ships,
    It’s just so that when the world is dark with war,
  Your sons can stand with You strong and free.

Archibald T. Strong

August 1914

Great names of your great captains who came before
  Live on in our blood, who share that blood with you:
  Raleigh and Grenville, Wolfe, and all the brave
Strong souls who dared to face a world at war.
Only they can surpass the jealous years
  Where weaker crowns and dimmer stars disappear,
  Nurtured in one memory and one love
Too lofty for passion and too tough for tears.

O little island our ancestors called home,
  Not just your flags and your armies
    Guide where your children will follow, Motherland:
As swift as the north wind, passionate as the waves,
  Look, look at the untouchable spirits
    Of all past greatness surrounding you.

Marjorie L.C. Pickthall

This is the ballad of Langemarck,
  A tale of glory and power;
Of the massive Hun army, and Canada's role
  In the intense brutal battle.

It was April fair on the Flanders Fields,
  But the worst April ever then
That any of the years, in their fateful journey,
  Had brought to this world of people.

North and east, a huge wall,
  The powerful Hun forces stood,
With fortress after fortress, and a trench of iron,
  Threatening, dark, and cold.

And to the south and west, like a serpent of fire,
  The British lines were lined up tight,
And in between, the dying and the dead,
And the smell of blood, and the crushed mud,
  On the beautiful, sweet Belgian vines.

And far to the east, tight and ready,
  Like a shiny, sharp sword,
Shining out from that dark haze,
  The armies of Old France appeared.

When we left the dark Hun lines one night,
  A creepy smoke rolled in;—
A strange, eerie cloud, like a pale, green shroud,
  And death hid within its folds.

On a wicked wind it twisted along
  Over the brave French troops,
Like a giant tree its fumes stretched,
  In terrifying, burning clusters
Of toxic smoke that burned the night
  With their sulfurous, demonic stench.

And people went crazy with fear, and ran
  From that awful, suffocating death,
That felt like it was burning both body and soul
  With its sinister, fiery breath.

Till even the little dark men of the south,
  Who feared neither God nor man,
Those fierce, wild fighters of Africa's plains,
  Broke their battalions and ran:—

Ran like they had never run before,
  Gasping, and struggling to breathe;
For they knew it wasn't a human enemy that killed;
  And that terrible smoke signified death.

Then crimson in the stench of that wicked cloud,
  The Hun rushed across the plain;
And the killer's dagger did its dreadful deed,
  Amid the blade-like shrapnel rain;

Till it seemed that at last the savage Hun forces
  Had broken through that wall of steel;
And that soon, through this gap in the free man's barrier,
  His trampling troops would turn;—

And move down south with destructive power,
  And Europe's people once more
Be crushed under the tyrant's foot,
  Like cattle in a Prussian pen.

But in that line on the British right,
  There gathered a large group,
Of men who came from a distant west land
  Of mountains and forests and plains;

Men new to war and its worst horrors,
  But brave, loyal, and honest;
Men from the open lands, East and West,
  Made from the best of Britain's spirit.

These were the men out there that night,
  When Hell was right in front of them;
Who witnessed that sad, terrible chaos,
  And inhaled those awful fumes;
While some fell apart and some lost their minds;
  But not a single man ran away.

For them, the word was "Canada," worth fighting for,
  And they keep on fighting still;—
Britain said to fight, and fight they would,
Even if the Devil himself, in a foul temper,
  Came over that terrible hill.

Yeah, they stood stubbornly, that group of heroes,
  Where no one expected to survive;
Five against eighty thousand men,
  Were impossible odds to overcome.

Yeah, they kept fighting! It was Friday night,
  When that toxic gas spread through;
It was Saturday night that found them still
  Stubbornly holding their ground;

Sunday, Monday, they were still there,
  A gradually shrinking group,
With "never give up" in their hearts,
  But the vision of a distant place,

Where mom and sister and love would cry
  For the quiet heart lying still;—
But never a thought other than to do their part,
  And fulfill the Empire's will.

Surrounded, trapped, and standing shoulder to shoulder,
  They battled there in the dark,
And fought for Empire, God, and what's right,
  At grim, red Langemarck.

Amazing battles have shaken this world,
  Since the Dawn-God defeated Dis;
Incredible struggles of right against wrong,
Celebrated in the verses of the world's great song,
  But never one greater than this.

Bannockburn, Inkerman, Balaclava,
  Marathon's legendary stand;
But never was there a more heroic act,
And never a greater group of warriors,
  In any soldier's land.

This is the ballad of Langemarck,
  A story of glory and strength;
Of the massive Hun army, and Canada’s role
  In the epic, brutal battle.

Wilfred Campbell

With arrows on their backs and numbers on their hooves,
With the thundering sound of twenty that echoes off the rooftops,
Low in crest and dull in coat, pale and wild in eye,
Through our English village, the Canadians pass by.

Flinching at a passing cart, swerving away from a car,
Lifting an anxious head to show off a snowy star,
Struggling with a Yankee stride, grabbing at the reins,
Twenty fresh Canadians are experiencing life again!

Hollow-necked and hollow-flanked, lean of rib and hip,
Strained and sick and tired from the rocking of the ship,
Happy to smell the grass again, hear the robin's song,
Walk the country road they lost back in Montreal!

Fate may bring them pain and sorrow; better horses than they
Sleep beside the English guns a hundred miles away;
But until war needs them, their reins lie lightly,
Gently their feet tread along the English lanes.

Will H. Ogilvie

He said: "You petty people, let me pass.
  What can you do but bow to me and kneel?"
But suddenly, dry land caught fire like grass,
  And the response came only from shell and steel.

He sought silence, but a thunder roared
  At him, a heavy hail from Liège.
All of Belgium surged at him in flames
  Until at her gates, his troops stood stunned.

Pay attention, for now they walk on haunted ground;
  A more powerful warlord has met his defeat:
Beware! lest that same green grass turn red again
  With the blood of Germans just like it did with Gauls.

If the person God is going to destroy is first made crazy,
Then let your downfall satisfy your madman's craving.

Stephen Phillips

Now the Emperor spoke to all his shining battle forces,
To the Lancers, the Rifles, the Gunners, and the Horses;—
And his pride swelled within him as he saw their banners fly!—
"It’s a twelve-day march to Paris, along the road our fathers took,
And the reward is half an empire when the red road’s laid bare—
Go now across the border,
By God’s decree and William’s command—
Climb the daunting Belgian ridges
With your gleaming swords raised high!
Seize the City of Bridges—
Then move on, move on to Paris—
To the jeweled streets of Paris—
To the enchanting woman, Paris, who has made me dream!"

A hundred thousand warriors
They climbed the steep ridges,
With their blazing swords drawn
And their banners at their feet.
They went after what they wanted,
To the City of the Bridges,
With their bare weapons drawn
Like the spears at dawn!
In a rising wave of fire,
Crawling higher—higher—higher—
Until they crumbled and fell
Like a swiftly fading tide,
And the thunder in their faces knocked them down and scattered them wide!

They had paid a thousand men,
Yet they formed and came again,
For they heard the silver bugles sounding a challenge to their pride,
And they rode with swords shining bright
For the glory of a dream,
And they charged up to the cannon's mouth and withered there, and
  died….
The daylight lay in ashes
On the blackened western hill,
And the dead were calm and still;
But the Night was torn with wounds—
Sudden ragged crimson wounds—
And the siege-guns snarled and roared,
With their flames thrust like a sword,
And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver bridge.

What a terrifying world it was,
Tangled in the cold moonlight!
People and animals lay injured and screaming,
(People must die when Kings are dreaming!)—
While in the troubled town
Mothers pulled their children down
As the horrible rain came pouring,
For the glory of a Crown!

So the Morning tossed aside her cloak
Through the hanging veil of smoke—
Trimmed with red, it was, and soaked with a deep and angry stain!
And the Day then walked on
Through a path of slain men,
And her light fell down before her like a Cross on the ground!
But the forts still stood at the top
With a bitter iron crown!
They had lived to blaze and battle,
They had lived to defend the Town!
And they unleashed their destruction
All that day … and all that night….
While four times their number came,
Pawns in a bloody game!—
With a silver trumpeting,
For the glory of the King,
To the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame!

So they charged the iron Hill,
Over the sleeping ones lying still,
And their trumpets urged them on through the gray dawns that followed,
But the thunder scattered them wide,
And they fell apart and died,—
They fought the war of kings—and they died the death of pawns.

But the forts still stood…. Their breath
Swept the enemy like a blade,
Though ten thousand men were paid
To the greedy hand of Death,
Though the ground was soaked with blood,
Still the strong defenses stood,
Stood!

And the King stepped out with his bodyguard as the day faded away—
And the moon rose up behind the smoke and revealed the King's dream.

Dana Burnet

There are five men in the moonlight
  Standing by their shadows;
Three are hobbled and using crutches,
  And two are missing a hand.

Frogs somewhere near the roadside
  Chorus their song, wrapped up in it:
But a silence comes from the dream-light
  That far in the heavens is shining.

It’s as gentle as sleep coming on
  And broad as thoughts can reach,
The timeless peace and awe
  That fills the heart of humankind.

Beyond the hills it shines now
  On no peace but the dead,
On the stench of trenches, shocked by thunder,
Tense fury of wills in a struggle locked,
  A chaos crumbled red!

The five men in the moonlight
  Chat, joke, or stare off.
They talk about old times and friends,
  But each one keeps his feelings to himself.

They wear a clean cap and tunic,
  Just like when they went to war;
There's a shine where the medal's pinned:
  But they won't fight anymore.

The shadows, broken and strange,
  Wave and twist out of shape,
Like a silent demon's mockery
Emerging from the chaos of hell
  That hunts them for its amusement:

But as if dead men had come back to life
  And stood right in front of me there
With a horrific reputation surrounding them
  In beams of ghostly light,

I see them, men transformed
  Like in a dream, expand
Amazing with the Titan pulse
  Of fighting Europe's destiny;

For history's silence before them,
  And legend ignites anew,—
Verdun, a name that resonates,
  Is etched into their skin.

Laurence Binyon

Three hundred thousand men, but not enough
To conquer this township by a winding stream;
Many more must fall, and more, before the red stuff
That built a nation's strength can bring to life
The Master's hopes and make his dream come true.

They clear the path to Verdun; on their dust
The Hohenzollerns rise up, and together,
Look tiredly south; for yet another push
And higher hills must pile up before they can
Gaze upon the promised land.

One mound, created by women, lifts them up high,
Constructed from many thousands of human remains.
Cradled in their mothers' arms, now they rest—
A place of the dead, all broken, torn apart,
A hill for these royal feet to walk on.

A Golgotha, on whose dead soil
The justice of countless people still unborn
Will lift two crosses; torture and strip away
Two cursed memories; then in the grave
Of global disdain give them space.

Verdun! Your name will echo through
The ages, and nations will witness
Your monuments of glory. Now we bring
Our offerings of thanks and bow our heads,
You are the star on the crown of Freedom!

Eden Phillpotts

Guns of Verdun aim at Metz
From the armored battlements;
Guns of Metz smile back again
Over the beautiful fields of Lorraine.

Guns of Metz are long and gray,
Growling through a summer day;
Guns of Verdun, gray and long,
Boom an echo of their song.

Guns of Metz to Verdun shout,
"Sisters, you’ll foot the bill;"
Guns of Verdun reply to Metz,
"Don’t worry, we’ll settle up."

Guns of Metz grumble, "When?"
Guns of Verdun respond,
"Sisters, when to protect Lorraine
Gunners set you East once more!"

Patrick R. Chalmers

I saw the towers of Oxford
  As I walked by,
The gray towers of Oxford
  Against the light gray sky.
My heart was with the Oxford guys
  Who went out to die.

The years fly by in Oxford,
  The golden years filled with joy,
The ancient Colleges gaze down
  On carefree boys at play.
But when the bugles signaled war
  They set their games aside.

They left the calm river,
  The cricket field, the quad,
The neatly trimmed lawns of Oxford,
  To find a bloody piece of land—
They sacrificed their joyful youth
  For their country and for God.

God bless you, happy men,
  Who sacrificed your lives,
Who traded in the uniform and the weapon
  Instead of the cap and gown.
May God lead you to a better place
  Than even Oxford town.

Winifred M. Letts

[The Boat Race won't happen this year (1915). The entire Oxford Eight from last year and most of the cricket and football teams are serving the King.]

Under the towpath by the barges
  Never an eight speeds by;
Never a loud coach on the edge is
  Pushing his crew to do or die;
Never the critic we knew expands,
  Eloquent, on How and Why!

Once by the Iffley Road in November
  Welcomed the football players, all fired up,
Covered in mud, as you’ll recall,
  Eager to defeat Oxford’s rivals.
Where are the teams from last December?
  Gone—wherever they had to go!

Where are her sons who played cricket
  Battling against their friendly foes?
Far from the parks, on a tougher field,
  They still fight and still oppose;
Playing a bigger game, they'll handle it,
  Fearless until the end!

Oxford's best kids are leaving her,
  Quickly putting their books down;
But the rushing weeks take away from her,
  Filling her heart with joy and pride;
Only the thought of you can make her sad,
  You who have fought and died.

W. Snow

Beneath beautiful Magdalen's famous towers
I stroll in a dream,
And hear the soft chimes drift out
Over Cherwell's frozen stream.

Throstles and blackbirds frozen with cold
Hop on the icy grass;
Among the old, standing oaks
The brown deer slowly pass.

The chapel organ plays and builds,
And voices still sing praises to God;
But oh! the thought of young friends
Who rest beneath the ground.

Now injured men with brave eyes
Hobble down the street,
And nurses from the hospitals
Rush by on tireless feet.

The town is packed with uniforms,
And through the stormy sky,
Scaring the crows out of the tallest trees,
The airplanes roar by.

The older faces are still here,
More serious, genuine, and kind,
Elevated by the steady effort
Of a patient heart and mind.

And old friends have become even more precious
To fill a shared space:
Steadfast faith makes each one
With a hopeful expression.

Old Oxford walls are gray and worn:
She understands the truth of tears,
But today she stands in her timeless pride
Crowned with everlasting years.

Her sons are gone: yet her heart is happy
In the glory of their youth,
For she brought them into this world to live or die
For freedom, justice, and truth.

Cold moonlight shines on quiet towers;
The young spirits stroll with the old;
But Oxford looks forward to the dawn of May
And her heart is free and brave.

Tertius Van Dyke

Magdalen College

January 1917

SONNETS WRITTEN IN THE FALL OF 1914

Awake, you nations, lying back asleep,
  Surrounding the European conflict!
  Did you hear the trumpet blow? "The Day! The Day!
The last day that will shine on England's Empire!
The Parliament that shattered the Divine Right
  Will watch her land of reason vanish,
  And smaller nations will submit to the sword—
The sword will shape the grand design of the world!"

So on the English Channel stands the enemy
  Upon whose mighty head death’s helmet sways.
See how his army moves through bloody Belgium,
  And combines a nation's history with burning soil!
A kingdom’s ruin! A people’s suffering without a home!
  Man’s broken promises, and betrayed gods!

Long will it be until the day when England's kingdom sees
  The end of its power! Its expansion
  Erases the oceans that divide us,
And creates a sense of brotherhood on earth!
She, by establishing sovereignty among free nations,
  Holds half of the civilized world in British peace;
  And even if time takes it away, and she fades,
Like Rome, she becomes greater in people's memories.

Oh, many crowns will fall in the chaos of war,
  And many new republics will shine brightly,
Fleets will sail the seas, nations will farm the land,
  Genius will emerge and generations will pass.
East and West will work together,
  Before such a great achievement rises high!

Listen, the Destroyer's feet walk
  In the wine-press of the nations; fast the blood
  Flows from the side of Europe; in the flood
On the northern watershed
The rivers of beautiful France are running red!
  England, the mother-nest of our kin,
  That stood at the peak of power,
Shakes in the storm: heaven fights above!

Lift up your head, O Rheims, heir of ages
  That has held within you their glorious legacy;
Upon whose brow, prophetically beautiful,
  Burned the great dawn of the future world;
Fill this fiery air with your beauty
  Before you fade away, O Flower of Christendom!

As when the shadow of a solar eclipse
  Moves across the earth, creating a ghostly vibe,
  As if the whole universe were fading away,
Darkness covers every continent and island,
Unusual gloom, and slips over the Atlantic;
  So at night, the Belgian cities light up
  Across the horizon; the roaming people travel
Along the roads and load onto the escaping ships.

And moving westward, that planetary path
  Darkens over England and the future to come,
Already it stands at the deep ocean!
  Stay alert, my country, to that eerie sea,
Lest when you least expect it, and in your sleep,
  Unprepared for battle, that darkness surrounds you.

I pray for peace; yet peace is just a prayer.
  How many wars have happened in my short life!
  All races and all beliefs, both sides of the globe,
My eyes have seen conflict everywhere
Across the vast earth; still, I do not lose hope
  For peace, which slowly comes closer over time;
  Though the bright day is not yet here for me,
I have complete faith that time will bring about good results.

For humans build on a timeless level,
  And their ideals are shaped by postponed hopes;
The millennium didn’t come; still, Christ didn't fail,
  Though His promise remains unfulfilled;
We honor Him, the Prince of Peace, though He isn't crowned,
  Supreme when He is felt in every heart.

This is my belief, and my mind's legacy,
  Where I work, even in a solitary spot,
  Who still looks over the entire human race
Separating ourselves from wild nature,
Body and soul, easing life's old struggles;
  Still must remain, until heaven completes its grace,
  And love, turning into wisdom, brings sweetness to humanity,
Both the Christian and the non-Christian are filled with anger.

The guiding spirit of humanity
  Matures gradually into the ultimate state,
That will take root in the soul
  And only flourish through triumphant love;
The heart must be patient, the mind must be humble,
  As it waits for the greater achievements of time!

Where I stand, I can't help but feel a stir as I see the nations gather
  From Dover to the Rhine's springs,
  A hundred leagues, the red battle line,
And by the Vistula, vast armies gather,
A greater flood; my heart swells,
  Seeing all the people of the world unite
  Under one flag, with one sign,
Becoming brothers in this universal turmoil.

And never in all the world has there been
  A stronger call! O You who came from the side
Of Athens and the lineage of Caesar,
  Strike, Europe, with half the future world united
For those ideals for which, since Homer wrote,
  The armies of thirty centuries have fallen.

George Edward Woodberry

O living images of the dead,
  O songs without a sound,
O companionship whose ghostly steps
  Sanctify a ghostly ground—
How in a flash have these shown
  The faith we had not discovered.

We have looked for God in a cloudy sky,
  We have overlooked God on the ground:
His seven sins and his seven sorrows,
  His weary state and joy,
Like a tattered cloak have concealed from us
  The mystery of his origin.

Brother of mankind, as I watch
  The young men step forward in a line,
You know my heart is longing for
  Your bread and wine;
You know my heart is humbled within
  To accept their death for mine.

Henry Newbolt

[Political morality is different from personal morality because there’s no authority above the State.—General von Bernhardt]

Shadow by shadow, ready for battle,
  The sleek black ships scan the ocean.
All night, their beams of light
  Turn slowly, finding no foe.
Only they understand that each rising wave
May conceal the lightning, and their resting place.

And in the land they protect so carefully
  Is there no quiet watch to maintain?
An era is ending, and the bell
  Strikes midnight on a wider expanse.
But across all its waters, once again
The searchlights sweep, from shore to shore.

And captains we believed were gone,
  And dreamers we thought were silent,
And voices we assumed had vanished,
  Rise up, and summon us, and we come;
And "Look within yourself," they say;
"For there, too, your enemy hides."

Search for the enemy within yourself,
  The laziness, the arrogance;
The silly joke that hides the purpose
  For which our ancestors lived and died;
The reckless dreams, the cynical Art,
That tear your better self apart.

Not far, not far into the night,
  These straight beams of light can cut through;
Yet for her belief, England fights,
  Her belief in this universe,
Trusting that Truth and Justice come
From sources of endless law;

The law that governs the stars, our home,
  Our guide through the vast ocean of the world.
The one constant light, the one clear path,
  The one solid foundation of Freedom;
The one steady road that people have walked
Through Chaos to the presence of God.

Therefore, a Power beyond the State,
  The unbeatable Power, comes back,
The fire, the fire that made her great
  Once again burns on her altar,
Once more, renewed and healed and complete,
She moves toward the Eternal Goal.

Alfred Noyes

Now is the midnight of the nations: dark
  Even as death, beside her blood-red seas,
  Earth, like a mother in labor pains,
Screams in her struggle, and the planets listen
To her million-throated terror. Naked, stark,
  Her body writhes dramatically, and her knees
  Tremble against the shadowed Pleiades,
Wrenching the night's heavy arc.

Christ! What will tomorrow bring
  From these struggles, if another
  Morning ever follows this night, or if this vast mother
Survives to see her blood-soaked children, ripped
  From her tortured body?—What beauty will emerge from the chaos?
What new world with wings, or wounded god never born?

Percy MacKaye

What about the belief and passion inside us
  Men who leave
  Before the roosters crow
  That night is getting dim,
To dangers from which no tears can save us;
What about the belief and passion inside us
  Men who leave!

Is it a blind joke, do you think,
  Friend with the thoughtful gaze
  Who sees us passing by,
  With doubt and sad sigh?
Can so much thinking really fool you?
Is it a blind joke, do you think,
  Friend with the thoughtful gaze?

No. We clearly understand what we're doing,
  Even if some don’t see—
  Procrastinators as they are—
  We are what England needs;
Her struggles would leave us regretting;
No. We fully understand what we're doing,
  Even if some don’t see!

In our hearts, we believe
  Victory rewards the righteous,
  And that those who boast
  Will definitely fall,
We march to the field without sorrow,
In our hearts, we believe
  Victory rewards the righteous.

Hence the faith and passion within us
  Men who walk away
  Before the roosters say
  Night is getting gray,
To dangers from which no tears can save us;
Hence the faith and passion within us
  Men who walk away.

Thomas Hardy

September 5, 1914

We didn’t want it. We haven’t lived in hate,
Loving too much the counties of England spread
From sea to sea to envy your land,
Or hope for a single stroke of luck from your throne.

We had become proud because the nations stood
Hoping together against the slander
That, tormented by its ancient barbarian roots,
The heart of man would still be barbaric.

Builders there are who call you overlord,
Building with us the strongholds of light,
Who share with us this shameful pact we hate,
And shout you risen Caesar of the Night.

Beethoven talks with Milton today,
And Shakespeare's words echo with Goethe's in the sky,
In witness of the heritage you betray,
In witness of the vision you reject.

We cherish the warmth of the fireplace, the peaceful hills, the music,
The friendly chatter coming from everywhere;
And indeed, peace now feels like an unspoken injustice—
You force this bitter conflict into our hands.

For this, your pride, the tragic armies march,
And the grim navies patrol the seas;
You deal in death, you make fun of life, you cast
To God the chaos of your blasphemies.

You take away our right to love. That's what they say.
You sit on a throne, betraying the world,
We stand up, and, by those who haven't been honored yet,
This betrayal won't be easily forgiven.

John Drinkwater

Now the sun, which has been working all day, slowly sets
Behind the peaceful trees and the old church tower;
And we who watch it know our day is over;
For us too, evening approaches—and so does the hour.

The sunbeams streaming through those old trees,
The bright lichens glowing on the barn,
The lark coming down, and the returning bees,
Announce the sweet relief that everything longs for.

Golden, the river flows under the west,
And holy peace is granted to all the world;
The silent dove smooths her reddish chest;
The blue smoke rises like a prayer to heaven.

Please provide the text you would like modernized.

O ancient England, land of golden peace,
Your fields are woven with delicate threads of gold,
And golden harvests bring in your abundance,
And plenty adorns your indescribable beauty.

By sunlight or by starlight, you
Are excellent in countless forms of beauty;
The still star of victory always adorns your brow;
Time can’t age you; ages only make you wiser.

Your beauty shines with the evening sun
Over the long-lit fields and distant steeple:
So sleep well—like his, your work is done;
Rest in your glory as he rests in fire.

Understood. Please provide the text you'd like me to modernize.

But even in this moment of calm rest
A gentle sadness nudges us like a friend—
The sorrow of the happiness that spills over,
The weight of the beauty that must fade.

And from the dimming sunset comes a cry,
And in the dusk, voices wailing by,
Like wild swans calling, "When we rest, we die,
And pity to those who linger and are last";

And as the Sun sets, suddenly in heaven reborn
There shines an armed Angel like a Star,
Who calls out over the darkening world in disdain,
"God is coming to Judge you. Know who you are."

Sure, please provide the text you wish to have modernized.

From fire to deep brown fades the sunset gold,
From deep brown into silver and twilight;
The young flowers have said their prayers
And close up together, ready for the night;

The garden urns are black against the evening;
The white moth flutters through the scented shadows;
How beautiful the skies are!—But still we mourn
And wander restlessly from the lit rooms.

For throughout the world tonight, a whisper resonates
Like a newly discovered miracle of time—
Peace fades like twilight spilling over the hills,
And Darkness creeps in to conceal the awful crime.

Are you no more, O Maiden born of Heaven
O Peace, bright Angel of the calm morning?
Who comes down to bless our plowed fields,
Or stands like Beauty smiling among the corn:

Mistress of joy and comfort and summer dreams,
Who stays among the woods and streams
To help us gather the harvest under the moon,
And cheerfully guide the heavy teams home:

Who teaches our children your wise knowledge;
Who keeps the good person's golden treasures full;
Who fills Life with abundance, Death with flowers;
Peace, Queen of Kindness—but of this earth, no more.

Understood. Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

Not your fault but ours, your concern was wasted;
For this that we’ve done, the pain is ours to face;
You gave so much, like He who gave us everything,
And just as we killed Him for it, you are now lost.

Heaven left it up to people to shape their destiny:
To live like wolves or build a grand society—
Like wild boars and bears, to grunt and growl in mud,
Or soar above, shining like joyful gods.

You raised us up: we killed and with you fell—
From golden thrones of wisdom, we fell weeping.
Fate tears the crowns from our weak brows;
The towers of Heaven disappear in the mists of hell.

Got it! Please provide the text you'd like modernized.

She faints, she falls; her fading eyes are dim;
Her fingers touch those bright buds she carried
To make us happy, but she can't bring anymore;
And even as she’s dying, she smiles—like Christ on the
Man who killed Him. Her beautiful eyes
Are filled with tears—not for herself but for us.

The gentle beings of the home;
The beautiful Dryads in her shaded woods;
The angels who live in the quiet places
Where she resides; and joyful spirits that wander
To bless her flocks and fertile lands;
Are gathered there to mourn and kiss her fading hands.

"Look, look," they shout, "she's not dead, she's breathing!
And we have stopped the terrible wound, deep,
The gaping wound. She's just sleeping
And will wake up. Bring wine and fresh wreaths
To crown her beloved head when she wakes,
And make her Queen again."—But no, for Peace was dead.

Understood. Please provide the text you want to be modernized.

And then came dark Lords; and filthy Dwarfs
With smooth talking; and Trolls; and deceitful creatures
Like gossiping Councillors and ruthless Kings
Who sharpen lies and hidden daggers:
And flashed their wicked eyes and cried in sorrow,
"We ruled the world for Peace. She took her own life."

Understood! Please provide the text you would like me to modernize.

In secret, he sharpened the bitter blade,
And poisoned it with the poison of lies, then struck,
And stabbed—Oh God! the Cruel Cripple killed;
And cowards ran away or offered shaky help,
She fell and died—in all of history's tale
The worst act ever committed, the most cursed crime.

Ronald Ross

Further and further we move away from the scene
  Of war—and of England's concern;
I try to keep my mind calm—
  But my heart remains there;

For a distant song of pain and wrong
  My spirit feels deeply confused,
And I sit all day on the deck, just waiting—
  And waiting for news!

I can see them lined up for battle—
  Heroes with hearts of gold,
But the Fates keep their victory
  Withheld;

And the hours move too slowly,
  The silent stillness thickens
In the daydreams, sadly!
  That keep the tension rising.

Oh, could I lie on the wind, or fly
  In the determined sea-bird's path,
Would I rush on, with a homesick cry—
  Or hurry back?

Florence Earle Coates

Burned from the ore's discarded waste,
The iron glows bright in the heat.
With piercing blows of pain and grief
The hammers strike the iron's beat.
Tried by the fire, through sorrow and struggle
We feel the iron in our soul.

O terrible Forge! if battered and hurt
The heart, more desperately comes our plea
Not to be saved but to be utilized,
Mind, muscle, and spirit, before we cease to be.
Hammer out the iron, sharpen it fine,
And mold us to the purpose we design!

Laurence Binyon

Come, Death, I need to talk to you;
And you, poor Innocence;
And Love—a boy with a broken wing;
And Pity, too:
The Fool will sing for you,
As Fools always do.

Sure, here’s the modernized text: Yeah, music doesn’t make much sense,
And a tune is easy to share,
And the Earth is ancient,
And I’m not the sharpest,
Yet I have secrets—deep ones, my dear,
To share with you all: Come closer.
And just in case some creepy listener is around,
I’ll ring my bells.

They're all at war!
Yes, yes, their bodies go
Under the burning sun and icy stars
To haunting songs of sorrow,
Dragging heavy cannons through mud
Of rain and blood;
The new moon shining fiercely on eyes
Wide with madness!

Hush!… I use words
I barely understand;
And the silent birds
Are watching Love!
From their cover of leaves and flowers,
Shaking at betrayals

Which even at noon shrink,
Listen, don’t pay attention to what I said
About the crazed crowds of men,
More foolish than I,
Fueled by envy and hatred,
Who kill and die—
Didn’t I speak clearly, then?
Yet Pity whispered, "Why?"

You silly thing, go off to your daisies.
What I have isn't news for a child to hear,
And Death has no ears. He’s dined where
Eyeless worms creep in the silence of sleep;
Yet, when he smiles, the hand he moves
Across his grinning jaws
Faintly rattles their thin bones, and… There, there;
Listen to how my bells in the air
Chase away worry!…

No, but I had a dream
Of a world gone insane.
Not a simple kind of crazy like me,
Who is crazy like an empty scene
Of water and a willow tree,
Where the wind has blown;
But that awful devil-crazy,
Who rots in his own mind,
And counts the dead,
Not honest one—and two—
But for the ghosts they were,
Brave, faithful, true,
When, heads held high,
In Earth’s cherished green and blue
They shared heaven
With Beauty who called them there….

There, he goes—
Old Bones; I've tired him out.
Yeah, and the light is fading,
And the rose is asleep,
And tired Innocence
Is off in dreams….
Come on, Love, my boy,
Nodding your sleepy head,
It's time for your prayers to be said.

Walter de la Mare

[Concerning the experiences of a journey on foot through the night of
August 4, 1914 (the night after the official declaration of war between
England and Germany), from a town near Amiens, in France, to Dieppe,
a distance of just over forty miles.]

Before I knew it, dawn was upon the road,
Right beside me, it came silently,
Not offering any greeting, except
For a gentle touch of light on my sleeve, making the path
Seem as if a bright face
Had shone upon it. This radiant youth was strange,
As I arrived in these beautiful, fertile areas of France,
Where Caesar once marched with his legions,
And where the Kaiser's Uhlans would soon pass
Before another moon faced the clouds
For control of these very fields.—Tonight
(And it’s only been a month since I was there)
The Kaiser might very well write, just like Caesar did,
In his new commentaries on a Gallic war,
"Fortissimi Belgae."—A month ago!
Who could have predicted then that the dead would lie
Like rows of grain under the harvest moon
On these lands once held by the ancient Belgae,
From Normandy all the way to renowned Liège!—

But it was from that terrifying August night
When all of Europe woke up to war, that we,
This beautiful Dawn-Youth and I, had come,
He from far away. Beyond grim Petrograd,
He’d awakened the peasant from his peaceful dreams,
Called the muezzin for morning prayer
Where minarets rise over the Golden Horn,
And driven shadows from the Prussian march
To rest beneath the lindens of the stadt.
Gently he’d stirred the bells to ring at Rheims,
He’d knocked on high Montmartre, still half-asleep;
Heard the sweet carillon of doomed Louvain,
Like a boy, had lingered for a moment’s play
Amid the patterns of Amiens,
And then was hurrying down the road to Dieppe,
When he caught up with me, drowsy from the hours
Through which I’d walked, with no companions but
The ghostly kilometer posts that stood
As sentinels of space along the way.—
Often, in doubt, I’d paused to question one,
With nervous hands, like those who read Moon-type;
And more than once I’d drifted into sleep
Beside the highway, in the wet grass,
While one of these white sentinels stood guard,
Recognizing me as a friend, who loves the road,
Especially at night, when wheels are still
And stars alone wander the earth.—But once
Three watchful shadows, darker than the night,
Laid hands on me and searched me for signs
Of traitor or spy, only to find
Over my heart the badge of loyalty.—
With wishes for bon voyage they handed me over
To the white guards who led me on again.