YOU love us when we're heroes, home on leave, Or wounded in a mentionable place. You worship decorations; you believe That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. You make us shells. You listen with delight, By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. You crown our distant ardours while we fight, And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. You can't believe that British troops 'retire' When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, Trampling the terrible corpses -- blind with blood. O German mother dreaming by the fire, While you are knitting socks to send your son His face is trodden deeper in the mud. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING 'IPHIGENIA IN AULIS' by LOUIS UNTERMEYER WALT WHITMAN by HARRISON SMITH MORRIS WHEN DEATH HAS LOST THE KEY by KENNETH SLADE ALLING THE PRODIGAL'S BROTHER SPEAKS by BESS SAMUEL AYRES THE STEPS OF THE COMMANDER by ALEXANDER (ALEKSANDR) ALEXANDROVICH BLOK |