In Depth

The most moving First World War poems

First World War poetry described the terror of the trenches and the futility of war

The nation will fall silent at 11am today, 100 years on from the two-minute silence first observed on Armistice Day on 11 November 1919.

Others will take solace and inspiration from the poetry from Britain’s greatest war.

The First World War was “one of the seminal moments of the twentieth century in which literate soldiers, plunged into inhuman conditions, reacted to their surroundings in poems”, writes English lecturer Dr Stuart Lee on Oxford University’s First World War Poetry Digital Archive.

According to BBC’s HistoryExtra, “some 2,200 writers published poetry about the Great War between 1914 and 1918, 25 per cent of them women and fewer than 20 per cent men in uniform”.

Below are some of the best, written during the years of the First World War and beyond.

In Flanders Fields, by John McRae

In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days agoWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,Loved and were loved, and now we lieIn Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:To you from failing hands we throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.

Marching Men, by Marjorie Pickthall

Under the level winter skyI saw a thousand Christs go by.They sang an idle song and freeAs they went up to calvary.

Careless of eye and coarse of lip,They marched in holiest fellowship.That heaven might heal the world, they gaveTheir earth-born dreams to deck the grave.

With souls unpurged and steadfast breathThey supped the sacrament of death.And for each one, far off, apart,Seven swords have rent a woman's heart.

The Soldier, by Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:That there’s some corner of a foreign fieldThat is forever England. There shall beIn 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,A body of England’s, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by the suns of home.And think, this heart, all evil shed away,A pulse in the eternal mind, no lessGives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

A Dead Boche, by Robert Graves

To you who’d read my songs of WarAnd only hear of blood and fame,I’ll say** (you’ve heard it said before)”War’s Hell!” and if you doubt the same,Today I found in Mametz WoodA certain cure for lust of blood:Where, propped against a shattered trunk,In a great mess of things unclean,Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunkWith clothes and face a sodden green,Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired,Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.

My Boy Jack, by Rudyard Kipling

“Have you news of my boy Jack?”Not this tide.“When d’you think that he’ll come back?”Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Has any one else had word of him?”Not this tide.For what is sunk will hardly swim,Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

“Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?”None this tide,Nor any tide,Except he did not shame his kind —Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,This tide,And every tide;Because he was the son you bore,And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

For the Fallen, by Robert Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,England mourns for her dead across the sea.Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royalSings sorrow up into immortal spheres.There is music in the midst of desolationAnd a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,They fell with their faces to the foe.

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 morningWe will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;They sit no more at familiar tables of home;They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,To the innermost heart of their own land they are knownAs the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,To the end, to the end, they remain.

The Cenotaph, by Charlotte Mew

Not yet will those measureless fields be green againWhere only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed;There is a grave whose earth must hold too long, too deep a stain,Though for ever over it we may speak as proudly as we may tread.But here, where the watchers by lonely hearths from the thrust of an inward sword have more slowly bled,We shall build the Cenotaph: Victory, winged, with Peace, winged too, at the column's head.And over the stairway, at the foot - oh! here, leave desolate, passionate hands to spreadViolets, roses, and laurel with the small sweet twinkling country thingsSpeaking so wistfully of other SpringsFrom the little gardens of little places where son or sweetheart was born and bred.In splendid sleep, with a thousand brothersTo lovers - to mothersHere, too, lies he:Under the purple, the green, the red,It is all young life: it must break some women's hearts to seeSuch a brave, gay coverlet to such a bed!Only, when all is done and said,God is not mocked and neither are the dead.For this will stand in our Market-place -Who'll sell, who'll buy(Will you or ILie each to each with the better grace)?While looking into every busy whore's and huckster's faceAs they drive their bargains, is the FaceOf God: and some young, piteous, murdered face.

To his love, by Ivor Gurney

He’s gone, and all our plansAre useless indeed.We’ll walk no more on CotswoldsWhere the sheep feedQuietly and take no heed.

His body that was so quickIs not as youKnew it, on Severn RiverUnder the blueDriving our small boat through.

You would not know him now…But still he diedNobly, so cover him overWith violets of pridePurple from Severn side.

Cover him, cover him soon!And with thick-setMasses of memoried flowers-Hide that red wetThing I must somehow forget.

Dulce et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backsAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their bootsBut limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,As under I green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could paceBehind the wagon that we flung him in,And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

To Germany, by Charles Hamilton Sorley

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,And no man claimed the conquest of your land.But gropers both through fields of thought confinedWe stumble and we do not understand.You only saw your future bigly planned,And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,And in each others dearest ways we stand,And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.

When it is peace, then we may view againWith new won eyes each other's truer formAnd wonder. Grown more loving kind and warmWe'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

MCMXIV, by Phillip Larkin

Those long uneven linesStanding as patientlyAs if they were stretched outsideThe Oval or Villa Park,The crowns of hats, the sunOn moustached archaic facesGrinning as if it were allAn August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleachedEstablished names on the sunblinds,The farthings and sovereigns,And dark-clothed children at playCalled after kings and queens,The tin advertisementsFor cocoa and twist, and the pubsWide open all day;

And the countryside not caring:The place-names all hazed overWith flowering grasses, and fieldsShadowing Domesday linesUnder wheat’s restless silence;The differently-dressed servantsWith tiny rooms in huge houses,The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,Never before or since,As changed itself to pastWithout a word – the menLeaving the gardens tidy,The thousands of marriages,Lasting a little while longer:Never such innocence again.

Break of Day in the Trenches, by Isaac Rosenberg

The darkness crumbles away.It is the same old druid Time as ever,Only a live thing leaps my hand,A queer sardonic rat,As I pull the parapet’s poppyTo stick behind my ear.Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knewYour cosmopolitan sympathies.Now you have touched this English handYou will do the same to a GermanSoon, no doubt, if it be your pleasureTo cross the sleeping green between.It seems you inwardly grin as you passStrong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,Less chanced than you for life,Bonds to the whims of murder,Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,The torn fields of France.What do you see in our eyesAt the shrieking iron and flameHurled through still heavens?What quaver — what heart aghast?Poppies whose roots are in man’s veinsDrop, and are ever dropping;But mine in my ear is safe —Just a little white with the dust.

For a survivor of the Mesopotamian campaign, by Elizabeth Daryush

War’s wasted era is a desert shore,As know those who have passèd there, a place

Where, within sound of swoll’n destruction’s roar,Wheel the wild vultures, lust and terror base;Where, making ready for them, stalk the grimBarbarian forms, hunger, disease and pain,Who, slashing all life’s beauty limb from limb,Crush it as folly on the stony plain.

A desert: – those too who, as thou, have beenFollowers of war’s angel, Sacrifice,(Stern striders to beyond brute torment’s scene,Soarers above the swerves of fear and vice)Know that the lightning of his ghostly gazeHas wrecked for them for ever earth’s small ways.

Here dead we lie, by A. E. Housman

Here dead we lieBecause we did not chooseTo live and shame the landFrom which we sprung.

Life, to be sure, Is nothing much to lose,But young men think it is,And we were young.

June, 1915, by Charlotte Mew

Who thinks of June's first rose today?Only some child, perhaps, with shining eyes andrough bright hair will reach it down.In a green sunny lane, to us almost as far awayAs are the fearless stars from these veiled lamps of town.What's little June to a great broken world with eyes gone dimFrom too much looking on the face of grief, the face of dread?Or what's the broken world to June and himOf the small eager hand, the shining eyes, the rough bright head?

Perhaps, by Vera Brittain

(Dedicated to her fiance Roland Aubrey Leighton, who was killed at the age of 20 by a sniper in 1915, four months after she had accepted his marriage proposal)

Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,And I shall see that still the skies are blue,And feel once more I do not live in vain,Although bereft of You.

Perhaps the golden meadows at my feetWill make the sunny hours of spring seem gay,And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet,Though You have passed away.

Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,And crimson roses once again be fair,And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,Although You are not there.

Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in painTo see the passing of the dying year,And listen to Christmas songs again,Although You cannot hear.

But though kind Time may many joys renew,There is one greatest joy I shall not knowAgain, because my heart for loss of YouWas broken, long ago.

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