The Man He Killed
By Thomas Hardy
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because --
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like — just as I --
Was out of work — had sold his traps --
No other reason why.
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.
By Thomas Hardy
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because --
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like — just as I --
Was out of work — had sold his traps --
No other reason why.
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.
Today is a good time to remember a special event 100 years ago, when in the midst of one of the great times of wholesale death and death, the Great War of 1914-1918, a special note of Christmas hope and peace resounded even until today. The Christmas Truce of 1914.
War is not glorious. It is horrific. People die. The Great War was probably the worst, as 16 million soldiers and civilians died.
However even in the midst of greatest tragedy the love of Christmas can still shine! Let us too shed a little light of love.
War is not glorious. It is horrific. People die. The Great War was probably the worst, as 16 million soldiers and civilians died.
However even in the midst of greatest tragedy the love of Christmas can still shine! Let us too shed a little light of love.
 | Dulce et Decorum Est By Wilfred Owen Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.* * It is sweet and right to die for your country |
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