Siegfried Sassoon

(1886 - 1967 / Kent / England)

Siegfried Sassoon Poems

81. Miracles 1/3/2003
82. Morning Express 1/3/2003
83. Morning-Glory 1/3/2003
84. Morning-Land 1/3/2003
85. Night On The Convoy 1/3/2003
86. Night-Piece 1/3/2003
87. Nimrod In September 1/3/2003
88. Noah 1/3/2003
89. October 1/3/2003
90. On Passing The New Menin Gate 3/31/2010
91. Parted 1/3/2003
92. Picture-Show 1/3/2003
93. Prelude To An Unwritten Masterpiece 1/3/2003
94. Prelude: The Troops 3/31/2010
95. Reconciliation 1/3/2003
96. Remorse 1/3/2003
97. Repression Of War Experience 1/3/2003
98. Sassoon's Public Statement Of Defiance 3/31/2010
99. Secret Music 1/3/2003
100. Sick Leave 1/3/2003
101. Slumber-Song 1/3/2003
102. Solar Eclipse 3/31/2010
103. Song-Books Of The War 1/3/2003
104. South Wind 1/3/2003
105. Sporting Acquaintances 3/31/2010
106. Stand-To: Good Friday Morning 1/3/2003
107. Storm And Sunlight 1/3/2003
108. Stretcher Case 1/3/2003
109. Suicide In The Trenches 1/3/2003
110. Survivors 1/3/2003
111. The Choral Union 1/3/2003
112. The Dark House 1/3/2003
113. The Death-Bed 1/3/2003
114. The Dragon And The Undying 1/3/2003
115. The Dream 1/3/2003
116. The Dreamers 1/3/2003
117. The Dug-Out 1/3/2003
118. The Fathers 1/3/2003
119. The General 1/3/2003
120. The Goldsmith 1/3/2003

Comments about Siegfried Sassoon

  • Tim Williams (4/24/2007 9:25:00 PM)

    This is interesting

    276 person liked.
    246 person did not like.
Best Poem of Siegfried Sassoon

Suicide In The Trenches

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.

Read the full of Suicide In The Trenches

The General

‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

. . . .
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

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