There are many literary commentaries on World War I: by Ernest Hemingway, Erich Maria Remarque, Ezra Pound. . . and here are two poets and two poems of that literature:

The Survivors by Siegfried Sassoon

No doubt they’ll soon get well; the shock and strain
  Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they’re “longing to go out again,”—
  These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk,
They’ll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
  Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,—
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they’ll be proud
  Of glorious war that shatter’d all their pride …
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

CRAIGLOCKART,
    Oct. 1917.

And Wilfred Owen’s poem about the partially-anonymous S. I. W. :

    And offer him consolation in his trouble,
    For that man there has set his teeth to die,
    And being one that hates obedience,
    Discipline, and orderliness of life,
    I cannot mourn him.”
                             W. B. Yeats.

Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad
He’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face;
Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,—
Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.
Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she’d fret
Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse.
Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . .
Brothers—would send his favourite cigarette,
Each week, month after month, they wrote the same,
Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut,
Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim
And misses teased the hunger of his brain.
His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand
Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand
From the best sandbags after years of rain.
But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,
Untrapped the wretch.  And death seemed still withheld
For torture of lying machinally shelled,
At the pleasure of this world’s Powers who’d run amok.

He’d seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol,
Their people never knew. Yet they were vile.
“Death sooner than dishonour, that’s the style!”
So Father said.

                          One dawn, our wire patrol
Carried him.  This time, Death had not missed.
We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough.
Could it be accident?—Rifles go off . . .
Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)

It was the reasoned crisis of his soul.
Against the fires that would not burn him whole
But kept him for death’s perjury and scoff
And life’s half-promising, and both their riling.

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,
And truthfully wrote the Mother “Tim died smiling.”

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