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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 127: IX
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About This Book

A sequence of sonnets composed by a soldier in enemy captivity during the First World War, recording frontline violence, the suddenness of bombardment, marches and captures, the strain of waiting and the loss of comrades, and the solace found in memory and poetic labour. Many poems juxtapose immediate scenes—exploding shrapnel, crowded billets, marches, and internment camps—with reveries of homeland landscapes and classical or moral reflections. Sections move between field incidents, the nadir of imprisonment, thoughts of home and influences, and short epigrams or maxims, showing how verse acted as a mental bulwark against despair while exploring themes of fate, endurance, and the persistence of inner freedom.

IX

There have been moments haunted by the sound
Of riot in our midst and foul rapine,
Which, with more wealth, still makes our lives more mean,
When I have asked: “If one who strove to ground
Our life afresh should cast his eyes around
Amongst the people, one great class to glean
Out of the whole, that should keep England clean,
Where should this pure, effectual class be found?”
No answer came from those who still divide
The old tradition of a worn-out past.
I asked the Church: the labouring lost replied;
For these the Publican. And at the last
I looked into the honest eyes of youth,
And knew—the exceeding bitterness of truth.

Hesepe, 5th July