A Woman’s Prayer by Philadelphia Nina Robertson

I am so placid as I sit
In train or tram, and knit and knit;
I walk serenely down the street
And smile on all the friends I meet;
Within the house I give due heed
To every duty, each one’s need
And when it’s dark and lamps are lit,
I take my sock again, and knit.

Sometimes the newsboys hurry by
And then my needles seem to fly
Through purl and plain, row after row,
They flash, until the fire burns low—
I am so tranquil as I sit
Till bedtime comes, and knit and knit.

And when the house has grown quite still,
I lean out on my window-sill—
Lean out to the velvet night,
Gemmed with all its points of light,
And pray to God to see to it
That I keep sane enough to knit.

From: “New War Books” in The Bulletin, Vol. 37, No. 1916 (2 November 1916), p. [The Red Page].
(https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-658831288/view?partId=nla.obj-658862907#page/n0/mode/1up)

Date: 1916

By: Philadelphia Nina Robertson (1886-1951)

After Court Martial by Francis Edward Ledwidge

My mind is not my mind, therefore
I take no heed of what men say,
I lived ten thousand years before
God cursed the town of Nineveh.

The Present is a dream I see
Of horror and loud sufferings,
At dawn a bird will waken me
Unto my place among the kings.

And though men called me a vile name,
And all my dream companions gone,
‘Tis I the soldier bears the shame,
Not I the king of Babylon.

From: Ledwidge, Francis, The Complete Poems of Francis Ledwidge, 1919, Herbert Jenkins Limited: London, p. 252.
(https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Complete_Poems_of_Francis_Ledwidge/Last_Songs/After_Court_Martial)

Date: 1916

By: Francis Edward Ledwidge (1887-1917)

Wood Smoke by Herbert Jones

One evening as the dusk came softly down,
Walking along a road outside the town
I watched the sunset burning low and red,
And heard the leaves a-rustling, dry and dead.
Harried by breezes to their wintry bed.

By chance I passed a fire beside the way,
With small flames leaping in their impish play,
Bright in the dimness of the dying day;
And as the wind blew smoke across my face
Around me all the Bush rose up apace.

The great dim forest blotted out the farms
And close around the red fire flung its arms.
Canoe and portage, tent and camping place,
Ghosts in the wood smoke, lingered for a space.
Then passed, and with them went a comrade’s face.

From: Noyes, Alfred (ed.), A Book of Princeton Verse 1916, 1916, Princeton University Press: Princeton, NJ, p. 94.
(https://archive.org/details/abookprincetonv00unkngoog/)

Date: 1916

By: Herbert Jones (fl. 1916-1923)

Raindrops by Henry Smalley Sarson

Raindrops falling,
Falling on the reddened grass
Where through the night battle held full sway,
Like Tears of God that drop in pity, then pass
To wash our guilt away.

From: Various Authors, Soldier Poets: Songs of the Fighting Men, 1916, Erskine MacDonald: London, p. 80.
(https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Soldier_poets,_songs_of_the_fighting_men/H._Smalley_Sarson#80)

Date: 1916

By: Henry Smalley Sarson (1890-1967)

Fortitude by Paula Hudd

Today down Blank Court East, the children shout,
And calm faced women hang their washing out.
Ten days ago a bomb fell in the Court
And wiped the smile from out a baby’s eyes:
It wrecked the home of Simpkins who had fought
And still is fighting under foreign skies:
And blinded little Billy as he brought
For Mother’s praise his precious drawing prize.
Today down Blank Court East, the children shout,
And calm faced women hang their washing out.

From: Newman, Vivien, Tumult & Tears: The Story of the Great War Through the Eyes and Lives of its Women Poets, 2016, Pen & Sword History: Barnsley, South Yorkshire, p. 75.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=G18CDQAAQBAJ)

Date: c1916

By: Paula Hudd (fl. 1914-1918)

Neutral by John Hogben

Spoken in the name of the Allies.

Her spawn of spies — forerunners — filled the world;
Right from its ancient pedestal was hurled;
Rapine and lust, twin-sisters, followed fast
Upon her cloven footprints as she passed
From fury unto fury, demon-driven,
Vaunting the while her kinship still with Heaven;
She broke on every hand the laws of war;
Fair chivalry forsook her evermore:
She turned and smote each gallant little land
That to the death took up its valorous stand
In front of her amazing march of Hell,
Till, loyal to the last, each, fighting, fell.
To stay her course, — was it not Freedom’s task?
“How shall I help?” surely the thing to ask.
We fought the whole world’s battle, yet there stood
Her future victims in a doubting mood, —
Faint calling on the god of war to cease,
While smoking their war-gilded pipes of peace:
Some were too proud to fight; too timid some;
Much cried for protest — but their lips were dumb:
As if, forsooth, morality were dead,
And devil-worship reigned alone instead;
As if — and this the years to come will show —
To save their own our braver blood must flow.
On Europe’s chart, as it is known to-day,
Satanic fingers hellish pigments lay:
‘Tis monstrous, surely, crimson crimes’ imprint
Should neighbour be to any neutral tint!

From: Hogben, John, The Highway of Hades: War Verses: With Some Prose, 1919, Oliver and Boyd: Edinburgh, p. 52.
(https://archive.org/details/highwayofhadeswa00hogb/)

Date: 1916

By: John Hogben (18??-19??)

O Night, Be Long by Nahapet Kuchak

O night, be long—long as an endless year!
Descend, thick darkness, black and full of fear!
To-night my heart’s desire has been fulfilled–
My love is here at least—a guest concealed!

Dawn, stand behind seven mountains—out of sight,
Lest thou my loved one banish with thy light;
I would for ever thus in darkness rest
So I might ever clasp him to my breast.

From: Boyajian, Zabelle C., Armenian Poetry & Legends, 2009, Abela Publishing: London, p. 14.
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=XxWVF5804r0C)

Date: 16^th century (original in Armenian); 1916 (translation in English)

By: Nahapet Kuchak (15??-1592)

Translated by: Zabelle C. Boyajian (1873-1957)

The Unburied by M.R., N.Z. Headquarters

Now snowflakes thickly falling in the winter breeze
Have cloaked alike the hard, unbending ilex
And the grey, drooping branches of the olive trees,
Transmuting into silver all their lead;
And, in between the winding lines, in No-Man’s Land,
Have softly covered with a glittering shroud
The unburied dead.

And in the silences of night, when winds are fair,
When shot and shard have ceased their wild surprising,
I hear a sound of music in the upper air,
Rising and falling till it slowly dies–
It is the beating of the wings of migrant birds
Wafting the souls of these unburied heroes
Into the skies.

From: Bean, C.E.W. (ed.), The Anzac Book, 1916, Cassell & Company: London, p. 69.
(http://davidmhart.com/liberty/WarPeace/Books/The_Anzac_Book1916.pdf)

Date: 1916

By: M. R., N.Z. Headquarters (fl. 1916)

Anzacs by Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace

The children unborn shall acclaim
The standard the Anzacs unfurled,
When they made Australasia’s fame
The wonder and pride of the world.

Some of you got a V.C.,
Some “the Gallipoli trot,”
Some had a grave by the sea,
And all of you got it damned hot,

And I see you go limping through town
In the faded old hospital blue,
And driving abroad—lying down,
And Lord I but I wish I were you I

I envy you beggars I meet,
From the dirty old hats on your head
To the rusty old boots on your feet—
I envy you living or dead.

A knighthood is fine in its way,
A peerage gives splendour and fame,
But I’d rather have tacked any day
That word to the end of my name.

I’d count it the greatest reward
That ever a man could attain
I’d sooner be “Anzac” than “Lord”
I’d rather be “Anzac” than “thane”.

Here’s a bar to the medal you’ll wear,
There’s a word that will glitter and glow,
And an honour a king cannot share
When you’re back in the cities you know,

The children unborn shall acclaim
The standard the Anzacs unfurled,
When they made Australasia’s fame
The wonder and pride of the world.

From: http://iwvpa.net/wallacee/index.php

Date: 1916

By: Richard Horatio Edgar Wallace (1875-1932)

Home Service by Geoffrey Cust Faber

“At least it wasn’t your fault” I hear them console
When they come back, the few that will come back.
I feel those handshakes now. “Well, on the whole
You didn’t miss much. I wish I had your knack
Of stopping out. You still can call your soul
Your own, at any rate. What a priceless slack
You’ve had, old chap. It must have been top-hole.
How’s poetry? I bet you’ve written a stack.”

What shall I say? That it’s been damnable?
That all the time my soul was never my own?
That we’ve slaved hard at endless make-believe?
It isn’t only actual war that’s hell,
I’ll say. It’s spending youth and hope alone
Among pretences that have ceased to deceive.

From: Hibberd, Dominic and Onions, John (eds.), The Winter of the World: Poems of the Great War, 2013, Hachette: London, p. [unnumbered].
(https://books.google.com.au/books?id=QDSeBAAAQBAJ)

Date: 1916

By: Geoffrey Cust Faber (1889-1961)