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Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. 1918.

Index of First Lines

Across the land a faint blue veil of mist
All night the flares go up; the Dragon sings
Along the wind-swept platform, pinched and white
Anguish of the earth absolves our eyes, The
Because the night was falling warm and still
Behold these jewelled, merchant Ancestors
Bishop tells us: When the boys come back, The
Come in this hour to set my spirit free
Cry out on Time that he may take away
Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep
Down in the hollow there’s the whole Brigade
Evening was in the wood, louring with storm
Fall in, that awkward squad, and strike no more
For Morn, my dome of blue
Give me your hand, my brother, search my face
Glorying forest shakes and swings with glancing, The
He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
He primmed his loose red mouth and leaned his head
Here I’m sitting in the gloom
He staggered in from night and frost and fog
He stood alone in some queer sunless place
He turned to me with his kind, sleepy gaze
He woke; the clank and racket of the train
His headstrong thoughts that once in eager strife
His wet white face and miserable eyes
House is crammed: tier beyond tier they grin, The
I cannot think that Death will press his claim
I’d been on duty from two till four
I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been
I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin
I keep such music in my brain
I listen for him through the rain
I lived my days apart
In barns we crouch, and under stacks of straw
In gold and grey, with fleering looks of sin
In this meadow starred with spring
I’ve listened: and all the sounds I heard
I’ve never ceased to curse the day I signed
Jack fell as he’d have wished, the Mother said
Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet
Let my soul, a shining tree
Music of whispering trees
Old English songs, you bring to me
Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald
Return to greet me, colours that were my joy
Road is thronged with women; soldiers pass, The
Shepherds go whistling on their way
She triumphs, in the vivid green
So Davies wrote: ‘This leaves me in the pink
Then a wind blew
There stood a Poplar, tall and straight
They threw me from the gates: my matted hair
This is To-day, a child in white and blue
Three hours ago he blundered up the trench
Through darkness curves a spume of falling flares
To these I turn, in these I trust
Trudging by Corbie Ridge one winter’s night
When half the drowsy world’s a-bed
When I’m among a blaze of lights
When in your sober mood my body have ye laid
When meadows are grey with the morn
When old Noah stared across the floods
When roaring gloom surged inward and you cried
When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares
When Wisdom tells me that the world’s a speck
Where sunshine flecks the green
Where have you been, South Wind, this May-day morning
Ye hooded witches, baleful shapes that moan
Young Croesus went to pay his call