A Treasury of War Poetry: British and American Poems of the World War, 1914-1917George Herbert Clarke Houghton Mifflin, 1917 - 280 |
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Alan Seeger Alfred Noyes battle BATTLE OF LIÈGE beat beauty Belgium blood brave breath bright burning Captain Charles Hamilton Sorley crown dark dawn dead dear death died dream drum earth Eden Phillpotts England English eyes face faith fall fate feet fell field fight fire Flags of France flame Flanders flowers George Edward Woodberry glad glory gray Guns of Verdun hand hath heard heart Heaven Hell hill Honour hope hush Kilmeny knew Laurence Binyon Lieutenant light lips little hour live look Lord morning never night o'er Oxford pain peace Poems prayer rendezvous with Death road Rupert Brooke shadows shell sing sleep soldier song soul spirit stand star stood sword tears thee thine thou thought thunder tread trench Verdun vive wake and take WAR-TIME watch Wilfrid Wilson Gibson wind wounded writings include
Popularne fragmenty
Strona 152 - If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam.
Strona 6 - ... stones He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away. A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black, A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl Make him the quaint great figure that men love, The prairie-lawyer, master of us all. He cannot sleep upon his hillside now. He is among us: — as in times before! And we who toss and lie awake for long Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door. His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
Strona 151 - I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 't were better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear . . . But I've a rendezvous with Death...
Strona 225 - They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
Strona 151 - I HAVE a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air — I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair.
Strona 155 - Joy-of-Battle takes Him by the throat, and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings. Julian...
Strona 22 - FOR all we have and are, For all our children's fate, Stand up and take the war, The Hun is at the gate! Our world has passed away, In wantonness o'erthrown. There is nothing left to-day But steel and fire and stone! Though all we knew depart, The old Commandments stand:— 'In courage keep your heart, In strength lift up your hand.
Strona 236 - I cannot quite remember. . . . There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and three Whispered their dying messages to me. . . .
Strona 89 - THE SPIRES OF OXFORD I SAW the spires of Oxford As I was passing by, The gray spires of Oxford Against the pearl-gray sky. My heart was with the Oxford men Who went abroad to die. The years go fast in Oxford, The golden years and gay, The hoary Colleges look down On careless boys at play. But when the bugles sounded war They put their games away. They left the peaceful river, The...
Strona 12 - Glory of thought and glory of deed, Glory of Hampden and Runnymede; Glory of ships that sought far goals, Glory of swords and glory of souls! Glory of songs mounting as birds, Glory immortal of magical words; Glory of Milton, glory of Nelson, Tragical glory of Gordon and Scott; Glory of Shelley, glory of Sidney, Glory transcendent that perishes not, — Hers is the story, hers be the glory, England! Shatter her beauteous breast ye may; The Spirit of England none can slay! Dash the bomb on the dome...