Siegfried Sassoon

(1886 - 1967 / Kent / England)

Siegfried Sassoon Poems

121. Wirers 1/3/2003
122. Battalion-Relief 1/3/2003
123. Memory 1/3/2003
124. Haunted 1/3/2003
125. Arcady Unheeding 1/3/2003
126. Repression Of War Experience 1/3/2003
127. To Any Dead Officer 1/3/2003
128. I Stood With The Dead 1/3/2003
129. At Carnoy 1/3/2003
130. The Death-Bed 1/3/2003
131. An Old French Poet 1/3/2003
132. Bombardment 1/3/2003
133. Ancestors 1/3/2003
134. Before The Battle 1/3/2003
135. Elegy 1/3/2003
136. Survivors 1/3/2003
137. At Daybreak 1/3/2003
138. The Dug-Out 1/3/2003
139. Arms And The Man 1/3/2003
140. Counter-Attack 1/3/2003
141. Glory Of Women 1/3/2003
142. A Poplar And The Moon 1/3/2003
143. Autumn 1/3/2003
144. Died Of Wounds 1/3/2003
145. How To Die 1/3/2003
146. Everyone Sang 1/3/2003
147. A Subaltern 1/3/2003
148. A Working Party 1/1/2004
149. Banishment 1/3/2003
150. A Wanderer 1/3/2003
151. The General 1/3/2003
152. 'They' 1/3/2003
153. Base Details 1/3/2003
154. A Whispered Tale 1/3/2003
155. A Child's Prayer 1/3/2003
156. “the Rank Stench Of Those Bodies Haunts Me Still” 3/31/2010
157. A Mystic As Soldier 1/3/2003
158. Alone 1/3/2003
159. Ancient History 1/3/2003
160. Attack 1/3/2003

Comments about Siegfried Sassoon

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (3/2/2016 2:16:00 PM)

    One of the great poets from World War I, Sassoon was also known for his fictionalised autobiographies, praised for their evocation of English country life.

    146 person liked.
    32 person did not like.
  • Lord Andrew Barham (3/18/2015 8:22:00 AM)

    Get rid of the goddamned video voice over – it's about as poetic as a sore arsehole!

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

    This is interesting

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 Hawthorn Tree

Not much to me is yonder lane
Where I go every day;
But when there’s been a shower of rain
And hedge-birds whistle gay,
I know my lad that’s out in France
With fearsome things to see
Would give his eyes for just one glance
At our white hawthorn tree.

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