This document summarizes three war poems from World War I. The first poem is "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen from 1917, which describes the horrors of war without prayers or mourning for those who die like cattle in battle. The second is "In Flanders Fields" by Colonel John McCrae from 1915, where poppies grow between the crosses marking where soldiers fell, and the dead call on the living to continue fighting. The third poem is "The Falling Leaves" by Margaret Postgate Cole, which compares leaves silently falling from a tree on a calm day to the multitude of soldiers who fell in battle, staining the Flanders clay.
This document summarizes three war poems from World War I. The first poem is "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen from 1917, which describes the horrors of war without prayers or mourning for those who die like cattle in battle. The second is "In Flanders Fields" by Colonel John McCrae from 1915, where poppies grow between the crosses marking where soldiers fell, and the dead call on the living to continue fighting. The third poem is "The Falling Leaves" by Margaret Postgate Cole, which compares leaves silently falling from a tree on a calm day to the multitude of soldiers who fell in battle, staining the Flanders clay.
This document summarizes three war poems from World War I. The first poem is "Anthem for Doomed Youth" by Wilfred Owen from 1917, which describes the horrors of war without prayers or mourning for those who die like cattle in battle. The second is "In Flanders Fields" by Colonel John McCrae from 1915, where poppies grow between the crosses marking where soldiers fell, and the dead call on the living to continue fighting. The third poem is "The Falling Leaves" by Margaret Postgate Cole, which compares leaves silently falling from a tree on a calm day to the multitude of soldiers who fell in battle, staining the Flanders clay.
What passing-bells for those who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells, Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, - The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Colonel John McCrae – In Flanders Fields (1915)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
The Falling Leaves – Margaret Postgate Cole
Today, as I rode by, I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree In a still afternoon, When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky, But thickly, silently, They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon; And wandered slowly thence For thinking of a gallant multitude Which now all withering lay, Slain by no wind of age or pestilence, But in their beauty strewed Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.