Repression of War Experience

Now light the candles; one; two; there's a moth;What silly beggars they are to blunder inAnd 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 scare you;And it's been proved that soldiers don't go madUnless they lose control of ugly thoughtsThat drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand,Draw a deep breath; stop thinking, count fifteen,And you're as right as rain...Why won't it rain? ...I wish there'd be a thunder-storm to-night,With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,And make the roses hang their dripping heads.

Books; what a jolly company they are,Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,And every kind of colour. Which will you read?Come on; O do read something; they're so wise.I tell you all the wisdom of the worldIs waiting for you on those shelves; and yetYou sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,And listen to the silence: on the ceilingThere's one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;And in the breathless air outside the houseThe garden waits for something that delays.There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,--Not people killed in battle,--they're in France,--But horrible shapes in shrouds--old men who diedSlow, natural deaths,--old men with ugly souls,Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.You're quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;You'd never think there was a bloody war on! ...O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.Hark! Thud, thud, thud,--quite soft ... they never cease--Those whispering guns--O Christ, I want to go outAnd screech at them to stop--I'm going crazy;I'm going stark, staring mad because of the guns.