Siegfried Sassoon


You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed.
You can’t believe that British troops retire
When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run.
You can’t believe a woman like me is fighting still.