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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 42: VIII
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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.

VIII

All is not well with England. Her great heart
Beats faultily and to no music set.
She hath her moods, suspicions, and doth fret
The daylong hour, by night doth toss and start.
Oft she stands dreaming in the crowded mart.
’Tis true that this distemper doth not yet
The deeper functions of her life beset,
And mightily she plays her mighty part.
Yet sometimes in this tempest the heart fears
Whether, so faulted, the old anchor grips.
And shall we find, we ask, when the sky clears,
England still mightier than England’s slips?
Let our own past proclaim it. Let the years
Advance and set their trumpets to their lips.

Rastatt, 9th May