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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 138: XX
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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.

XX

Man, little man, whose sun hath not declined,
Pale man with spirit written on his face,
Punched out of clay, and pitched on some mean place,
A breath of being battling with the wind,
A prisoner on Time’s floating isle confined,
Yet in himself encompassing all space,
While with the regal gesture of his race
He sweeps Eternity into his mind!
The Spirit! The Encompasser! O thou,
England my country, could I but behold
The steadiness of spirit on thy brow,
Could’st thou encompass spirit, I should hold
Thee master of the Future as the Past,
The immortal, perfect nation—and the last.

Hesepe, 21st July