This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: To speak of bloody power as right divine, And call on God to guard each vile chief’s house, And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine: To go forth killing in White Mercy’s name, Making the trenches stink with spattered brains, Tearing the nerves and arteries apart, Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains.
In any church’s name, to sack fair towns, And turn each home into a screaming sty, To make the little children fugitive, And have their mothers for a quick death cry,
This is the sin against the Holy Ghost: This is the sin no purging can atone: To send forth rapine in the name of Christ: To set the face, and make the heart a stone.
by Vachel Lindsay
God! How I Hate You!
God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men, Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves As soon as you are in them, nurtured up By the salt of your corruption, and the tears Of mothers, local vicars, college deans, And flanked by prefaces and photographs From all you minor poet friends — the fools — Who paint their sentimental elegies Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share The dead’s brief immortality
Oh Christ! To think that one could spread the ductile wax Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants — “Oh happy to have lived these epic days” — “These epic days”! And he’d been to France, And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire: Choked by their sickly fœtor, day and night Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths, Proved all that muddy brown monotony, Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night, Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step, His neck against the back slope of the trench, And the rest doubled up between, his head Smashed like an egg-shell, and the warm grey brain Spattered all bloody on the parados: Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend, Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone! Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right In the best possible of worlds. The woe, Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only A seeming woe, we cannot understand. God loves us, God looks down on this our strife And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times And calls some warriors home. We do not die, God would not let us, He is too “intense,” Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is! On earth, the love and fellowship of men, Men sternly banded: banded for what end? Banded to maim and kill their fellow men — For even Huns are men. In heaven above A genial umpire, a good judge of sport, Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold. Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems, Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust, Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is To suffer us to be born just now, when youth That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore, Where very God Himself does seem to walk The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!
by Arthur Graeme West
The Last Word
Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said! Vain thy onset! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will! Thou art tired: best be still.
They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and passed, Hotly charged - and sank at last.
Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall!
no subject
This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:
To speak of bloody power as right divine,
And call on God to guard each vile chief’s house,
And for such chiefs, turn men to wolves and swine:
To go forth killing in White Mercy’s name,
Making the trenches stink with spattered brains,
Tearing the nerves and arteries apart,
Sowing with flesh the unreaped golden plains.
In any church’s name, to sack fair towns,
And turn each home into a screaming sty,
To make the little children fugitive,
And have their mothers for a quick death cry,
This is the sin against the Holy Ghost:
This is the sin no purging can atone:
To send forth rapine in the name of Christ:
To set the face, and make the heart a stone.
by Vachel Lindsay
God! How I Hate You!
God! How I hate you, you young cheerful men,
Whose pious poetry blossoms on your graves
As soon as you are in them, nurtured up
By the salt of your corruption, and the tears
Of mothers, local vicars, college deans,
And flanked by prefaces and photographs
From all you minor poet friends — the fools —
Who paint their sentimental elegies
Where sure, no angel treads; and, living, share
The dead’s brief immortality
Oh Christ!
To think that one could spread the ductile wax
Of his fluid youth to Oxford’s glowing fires
And take her seal so ill! Hark how one chants —
“Oh happy to have lived these epic days” —
“These epic days”! And he’d been to France,
And seen the trenches, glimpsed the huddled dead
In the periscope, hung in the rusting wire:
Choked by their sickly fœtor, day and night
Blown down his throat: stumbled through ruined hearths,
Proved all that muddy brown monotony,
Where blood’s the only coloured thing. Perhaps
Had seen a man killed, a sentry shot at night,
Hunched as he fell, his feet on the firing-step,
His neck against the back slope of the trench,
And the rest doubled up between, his head
Smashed like an egg-shell, and the warm grey brain
Spattered all bloody on the parados:
Had flashed a torch on his face, and known his friend,
Shot, breathing hardly, in ten minutes — gone!
Yet still God’s in His heaven, all is right
In the best possible of worlds. The woe,
Even His scaled eyes must see, is partial, only
A seeming woe, we cannot understand.
God loves us, God looks down on this our strife
And smiles in pity, blows a pipe at times
And calls some warriors home. We do not die,
God would not let us, He is too “intense,”
Too “passionate,” a whole day sorrows He
Because a grass-blade dies. How rare life is!
On earth, the love and fellowship of men,
Men sternly banded: banded for what end?
Banded to maim and kill their fellow men —
For even Huns are men. In heaven above
A genial umpire, a good judge of sport,
Won’t let us hurt each other! Let’s rejoice
God keeps us faithful, pens us still in fold.
Ah, what a faith is ours (almost, it seems,
Large as a mustard-seed) — we trust and trust,
Nothing can shake us! Ah, how good God is
To suffer us to be born just now, when youth
That else would rust, can slake his blade in gore,
Where very God Himself does seem to walk
The bloody fields of Flanders He so loves!
by Arthur Graeme West
The Last Word
Creep into thy narrow bed,
Creep, and let no more be said!
Vain thy onset! all stands fast.
Thou thyself must break at last.
Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired: best be still.
They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?
Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and passed,
Hotly charged - and sank at last.
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Let the victors, when they come,
When the forts of folly fall,
Find thy body by the wall!
by Matthew Arnold