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  1. 22 de mai. de 2024 · Who is Siegfried Sassoon Siegfried Loraine Sassoon (8 September 1886 – 1 September 1967) was an English war poet, writer, and soldier. Decorated for bravery on the Western Front, he became one of the leading poets of the First World War.

  2. 15 de mai. de 2024 · Observe these blue solemnities of sky Offering for the academes of after-ages A mythologic welkin freaked with white! Listen : one tiny tinkling rivulet Accentuates the super-sultry stillness That dr

  3. Há 5 dias · Haunted. Evening was in the wood, louring with storm. And baked the channels; birds had done with song. Leisurely sliding on by weir and mill. His face a little whiter than the dusk. A drone of sultry wings flicker'd in his head. But stood, the sweat of horror on his face. In sudden race to leave the ghostly trees.

  4. 21 de mai. de 2024 · Aftermath. Have you forgotten yet?…. Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. But the past is just the same-and War's a bloody game …. Have you forgotten yet?…. Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget. The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?

  5. 14 de mai. de 2024 · 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 snug-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.

  6. 18 de mai. de 2024 · A Child's Prayer. Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray. And guard my innocence for evermore. For Morn, my dome of blue, For Meadows, green and gay, And Birds who love the twilight of the leaves, Let Jesus keep me joyful when I pray. For the big Bees t.

  7. Há 1 dia · David Cleek. I cannot think that Death will press his claim. To snuff you out or put you off your game: You'll still contrive to play your steady round, Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground, And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green. Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean. Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek,