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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 72: XII
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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.

XII

Of these thou art. And, Wordsworth, it is not
That thou hast missed man’s feverish heritage.
Strange passions thou hast known, and noble rage,
Nor in Romance an anodyne hast sought.
And if to souls in trouble thou hast brought
Strength and relief, ’tis not thy sauntering page,
Nor oft-times common theme that doth assuage
The anguish of the spirit overwrought.
Rather it is that, deeply moved, thou sink’st
Deeply in nature’s homeliness, thy rime
Plain as her face; but, stooping as thou drink’st,
The eternal from beyond the hills of Time
Is on thee ere thou know’st it, and thou link’st
Thy being with it, suddenly sublime.

Hesepe, 31st May