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Hace 3 días · Wilfred Owen's book of wartime poetry is full of strong imagery and brutal honesty of the first world war. Owen was killed in action in November, 1918 - and was posthumously promoted to lieutenant the day after his death.
Hace 2 días · Exposure. I. Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . . Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens. Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
Hace 5 días · Bent double like old beggars under sacks. A. Knock kneed coughing like hags we cursed through sludge. B. Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs. A. And towards our distant rest began to trudge. B. Men marched asleep Many had lost their boots.
Hace 2 días · The Dead-beat. He dropped,-more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; -Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. “I'll do 'em in,” he whined, “If this hand's spared,
Hace 5 días · Spring Offensive. Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease. And, finding comfortable chests and knees. Carelessly slept. But many there stood still. To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world. Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled.
Hace 3 días · The Letter. With B.E.F. Jun 10. Dear Wife, (Oh blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife .) I'm in the pink at present, dear. I think the war will end this year. We're out of harm's way, not bad fed. I'm longing for a taste of your old buns.
Hace 1 día · The Latin phrase is from the Roman poet Horace and translates to “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country”
