Glory of Women

              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.



                                                                         
     






Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967).  
Counter-Attack and Other Poems.  1918.





29/07/2003
09:00 בבוקר