Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind. Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep. War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die. The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom - A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind. Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches, Raged at his breast, gulped and died, Do not weep. War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment, Eagle with crest of red and gold, These men were born to drill and die. Point for them the virtue of slaughter, Make plain to them the excellence of killing And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button On the bright splendid shroud of your son, Do not weep. War is kind. --Stephen Crane, the best bad poet ever.
It's chock full of writers from both sides that died during the Great War only to be forgotten. There are some bigger names -- Owen's in there -- but a lot of them are relative unknowns. There's always an editorial piece on each writer, with discussion of their artistic strengths and their biographies and when and how they died.
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Because the lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die.
The unexplained glory flies above them,
Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom -
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift blazing flag of the regiment,
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die.
Point for them the virtue of slaughter,
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
--Stephen Crane, the best bad poet ever.
Reply
I have a book beside my bed called "The Lost Voices of World War I: An International Anthology of Writers, Poets & Playwrights" by Tim Cross
It's chock full of writers from both sides that died during the Great War only to be forgotten. There are some bigger names -- Owen's in there -- but a lot of them are relative unknowns. There's always an editorial piece on each writer, with discussion of their artistic strengths and their biographies and when and how they died.
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