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cygna_himeTwo poems, one for those who came home...
Does It Matter?
Siegfried Sassoon
Does it matter? --losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? --losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter? --those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know that you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
...and one for those who did not.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Does It Matter?
Siegfried Sassoon
Does it matter? --losing your legs?...
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.
Does it matter? --losing your sight?...
There's such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.
Do they matter? --those dreams from the pit?...
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won't say that you're mad;
For they'll know that you've fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.
...and one for those who did not.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, --
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
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(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-11 10:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-12 12:54 am (UTC)Although these poems were written not very far apart in either time or space, Wilfred Owen died ninety years and seven days ago exactly, while Siegfried Sassoon lived until well after the war. So one poem from a man who never left the trenches to his fellows, and one from a man who only left them in body, to his.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-12 03:36 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-12 05:20 am (UTC)No Man's Land (http://www.last.fm/music/Priscilla+Herdman/Forgotten+Dreams/No+Man%27s+Land).
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-12 01:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-13 02:03 am (UTC)Oh hai icon quote.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-13 03:19 am (UTC)I am a firm believer in quote!icons.