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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518888" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>“The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still”</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still<br>And I remember things I'd best forget.<br>For now we've marched to a green, trenchless land<br>Twelve miles from battering guns: along the grass<br>Brown lines of tents are hives for snoring men;<br>Wide, radiant water sways the floating sky<br>Below dark, shivering trees. And living-clean<br>Comes back with thoughts of home and hours of sleep.<br>To-night I smell the battle; miles away<br>Gun-thunder leaps and thuds along the ridge;<br>The spouting shells dig pits in fields of death,<br>And wounded men, are moaning in the woods.<br>If any friend be there whom I have loved,<br>God speed him safe to England with a gash.<br>It's sundown in the camp; some youngster laughs,<br>Lifting his mug and drinking health to all<br>Who come unscathed from that unpitying waste:<br>(Terror and ruin lurk behind his gaze.)<br>Another sits with tranquil, musing face,<br>Puffing bis pipe and dreaming of the girl<br>Whose last scrawled letter lies upon his knee.<br>The sunlight falls, low-ruddy from the west,<br>Upon their heads. Last week they might have died<br>And now they stretch their limbs in tired content.<br>One says 'The bloody Bosche has got the knock;<br>'And soon they'll crumple up and chuck their games.<br>'We've got the beggars on the run at last!'<br>Then I remembered someone that I'd seen<br>Dead in a squalid, miserable ditch,<br>Heedless of toiling feet that trod him down.<br>He was a Prussian with a decent face,<br>Young, fresh, and pleasant, so 1 dare to say.<br>No doubt he loathed the war and longed for peace,<br>And cursed our souls because we'd killed bis friends.<br>One night he yawned along a haIf-dug trench<br>Midnight; and then the British guns began<br>With heavy shrapnel bursting low, and 'hows'<br>Whistling to cut the wire with blinding din.<br>He didn't move; the digging still went on;<br>Men stooped and shovelled; someone gave a grunt,<br>And moaned and died with agony in the sludge.<br>Then the long hiss of shells lifted and stopped.<br>He stared into the gloom; a rocket curved,<br>And rifles rattled angrily on the left<br>Down by the wood, and there was noise of bombs.<br>Then the damned English loomed in scrambling haste<br>Out of the dark and struggled through the wire,<br>And there were shouts and eurses; someone screamed<br>And men began to blunder down the trench<br>Without their rifles. It was time to go:<br>He grabbed his coat; stood up, gulping some bread;<br>Then clutched his head and fell.<br>I found him there<br>In the gray morning when the place was held.<br>His face was in the mud; one arm flung out<br>As when he crumpled up; his sturdy legs<br>Were bent beneath bis trunk; heels to the skye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Siegfried+Sassoon">Siegfried Sassoon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518888" data-title="“The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still” de Siegfried Sassoon" data-description="The rank stench of those bodies haunts me still
And I remember things I'd best forget.
For now we've marched to a green, trenchless land
Twelve miles from battering guns: along the grass
Brown lines of tents are hives for snoring men;
Wide, radian..."></div>
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