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Sonnets from a prison camp

Chapter 94: 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

Compel them to be free! A true word there
Thou minted’st, Rousseau—half the human race
Still unaspiring to that crowning grace,
Still disinclined the easy yoke to wear.
Oh, that at length our people would but dare
To look their cancer fiercely in the face,
Consenting on the foul and rotting place
The short sharp anguish of the knife to bear.
For there are powers upon us that still sap
Our liberty and drain our manhood dry,
Which if we clear not speedily, mayhap
Our twilight follows and the end is nigh;
Or else there rise a Strong One who will clap
The Teuton iron on us, and we die.

Hesepe, 7th July