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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=518986" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Repression of War Experience</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth; <br>What silly beggars they are to blunder in <br>And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame— <br>No, no, not that,—it’s bad to think of war, <br>When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you;<br>And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad <br>Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts <br>That drive them out to jabber among the trees. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand. <br>Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, <br>And you’re as right as rain...<br>Why won’t it rain?... <br>I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night, <br>With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, <br>And make the roses hang their dripping heads. <br>Books; what a jolly company they are, <br>Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves, <br>Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, <br>And every kind of colour. Which will you read? <br>Come on; O do read something; they’re so wise. <br>I tell you all the wisdom of the world <br>Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet <br>You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, <br>And listen to the silence: on the ceiling <br>There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; <br>And in the breathless air outside the house<br>The garden waits for something that delays. <br>There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,— <br>Not people killed in battle,—they’re in France,— <br>But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died <br>Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls,<br>Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">. . . . <br>You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home; <br>You’d never think there was a bloody war on!... <br>O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns. <br>Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft ... they never cease— <br>Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out <br>And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy; <br>I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns.</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=518986" data-title="Repression of War Experience de Siegfried Sassoon" data-description="Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth; 
What silly beggars they are to blunder in 
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame— 
No, no, not that,—it’s bad to think of war, 
When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to ..."></div>
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