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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 129: XI
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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.

XI

Can it be thought, or can the thought be borne,
That for a single hour beneath the sun
Earth shall endure, when England’s day is done?
A world without an England! Yea, but shorn
Of the divinest gem her breast hath worn,
What most she makes for—doomed thenceforth to run
Blind, lost, and calling for that treasured One,
Through star-sown space, unfathomably mourne!
Never again the liquid air to breathe
On a May morn among the Mendip Hills;
Never to watch the green Atlantic seethe
Around the Lizard, while the Severn fills;
Never to hear the quivering strings that hung
The speech of Chatham on the English tongue!

Hesepe, 10th July