Repression+of+War+Experience

Repression of War experiences

Why won’t it rain?... || || . . . . ||  ||
 * NOW light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth; || ||
 * What silly beggars they are to blunder in || ||
 * And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame— || ||
 * No, no, not that,—it’s bad to think of war, || ||
 * When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you; || //5// ||
 * And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad || ||
 * Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts || ||
 * That drive them out to jabber among the trees. || ||
 * Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand. || ||
 * Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, || //10// ||
 * And you’re as right as rain...
 * And you’re as right as rain...
 * I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night, || ||
 * With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, || ||
 * And make the roses hang their dripping heads. || ||
 * Books; what a jolly company they are, || //15// ||
 * Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, || ||
 * Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, || ||
 * And every kind of colour. Which will you read? || ||
 * Come on; O //do// read something; they’re so wise. || ||
 * I tell you all the wisdom of the world || //20// ||
 * Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet || ||
 * You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, || ||
 * And listen to the silence: on the ceiling || ||
 * There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; || ||
 * And in the breathless air outside the house || //25// ||
 * The garden waits for something that delays. || ||
 * There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,— || ||
 * Not people killed in battle,—they’re in France,— || ||
 * But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died || ||
 * Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls, || //30// ||
 * Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
 * You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; || ||
 * You’d never think there was a bloody war on!... || ||
 * O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. || ||
 * Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease— || //35// ||
 * Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out || ||
 * And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy; || ||
 * I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns ||
 * Siegfried Sassoon**