Last Lesson of the Afternoon

Last Lesson of the Afternoon

	When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?
	How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart,
	My pack of unruly hounds! I cannot start
	Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,
5	I can haul them and urge them no more.
	No longer now can I endure the brunt
	Of the books that lie out on the desks; a full threescore
	Of several insults of blotted pages, and scrawl
	Of slovenly work that they have offered me.
10	I am sick, and what on earth is the good of it all?
	What good to them or me, I cannot see!
	So, shall I take
	My last dear fuel of life to heap on my soul
	And kindle my will to a flame that shall consume
15	Their dross of indifference; and take the toll
	Of their insults in punishment? — I will not! —
	I will not waste my soul and my strength for this.
	What do I care for all that they do amiss!
	What is the point of this teaching of mine, and of this
20	Learning of theirs? It all goes down the same abyss.
	What does it matter to me, if they can write
	A description of a dog, or if they can't?
	What is the point? To us both, it is all my aunt!
	And yet I'm supposed to care, with all my might.
25	I do not, and will not; they won't and they don't; and that's all!
	I shall keep my strength for myself; they can keep theirs as well.
	Why should we beat our heads against the wall
	Of each other? I shall sit and wait for the bell.

DH Lawrence

The Hero - Siegfriend Sassoon

'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white ha

Dulce Et Decorum Est - Wilfred Owen

DULCE ET DECORUM EST₁

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares² we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest³ began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots⁴
Of tired, outstripped⁵ Five-Nines⁶ that dropped behind.

Gas!⁷ Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets⁸ just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime⁹ . . .
Dim, through the misty panes¹⁰ and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,¹¹ choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud¹²
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest¹³
To children ardent¹⁴ for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.¹⁵

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

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For footnotes, see:

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html