“You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you.”

Leon Trotsky

“If you don't want a man unhappy politically, don't give him two sides to a question to worry him; give him one. Better yet, give him none. Let him forget there is such a thing as war. If the government is inefficient, top-heavy, and tax-mad, better it be all those than that people worry over it. Peace, Montag. Give the people contests they win by remembering the words to more popular songs or the names of state capitals or how much corn Iowa grew last year. Cram them full of noncombustible data, chock them so damned full of 'facts' they feel stuffed, but absolutely 'brilliant' with information. Then they'll feel they're thinking, they'll get a sense of motion without moving. And they'll be happy, because facts of that sort don't change.”

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

The Harp of Alfred

by Robert Ervin Howard

“I heard the harp of Alfred

As I went o'er the downs,

When thorn-trees stood at even

Like monks in dusky gowns;

I heard the music Guthrum heard

Beside the wasted towns:

When Alfred, like a peasant,

Came harping down the hill,

And the drunken danes made merry

With the man they sought to kill,

And the Saxon king laughed in their beards

And bent them to his will.

I heard the harp of Alfred

As the twilight waned to night;

I heard ghost armies tramping

As the dim stars flamed white;

And Guthrum walked at my left hand,

And Alfred at my right.”

Christmas Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807 - 1882

I heard the bells on Christmas Day

Their old, familiar carols play,

    And wild and sweet

    The words repeat

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,

The belfries of all Christendom

    Had rolled along

    The unbroken song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till ringing, singing on its way,

The world revolved from night to day,

    A voice, a chime,

    A chant sublime

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth

The cannon thundered in the South,

    And with the sound

    The carols drowned

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent

The hearth-stones of a continent,

    And made forlorn

    The households born

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;

"There is no peace on earth," I said;

    "For hate is strong,

    And mocks the song

Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:

"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;

    The Wrong shall fail,

    The Right prevail,

With peace on earth, good-will to men."

(Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays to you all!)

The Last Laugh

by Wilfred Owen

Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.

Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,

The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!

Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!

And the Big Gun guffawed.

Another sighed,-'O Mother, -Mother, - Dad!'

Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.

And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud

Leisurely gestured,-Fool!

And the splinters spat, and tittered.

'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,

Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud.

And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;

Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;

And the Gas hissed.

Anthem For Doomed Youth

by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

Dulce et Decorum Est

BY WILFRED OWEN

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

It stalked into camp when the day was damp And chilly and cold. It crept by the guards And murdered my pards With a hand that was clammy and bony and bold; And its breath was icy and mouldy and dank, And it killed so speedy And gloatingly greedy That it took away men from each company rank.

From The Flu by Private Josh Lee, 1919