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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 8: III
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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.

III

Unto some issue, Whither? No one dreamed
What menace crouched behind that bankèd mist,
Massing to bear down on us. No one wist
What power that shrapnel covered as it screamed
Futilely overhead. Scarce more it seemed
Than many a day had happed, of trials the least,
Vexatious interruption of a feast,
A broken night, a day spoiled ere it gleamed.
But still the thickening barrage combed the air;
Still whistling shrapnel sputtered into smoke;
And momently the cobbled roadway shook
With sickening thud where freighted monsters took
The earth with double thunder. Here and there
Blood trickled into hollows. No one spoke.

Rastatt, 27th April