Not yet will those measureless fields be green again
Where only yesterday the wild sweet blood of wonderful youth was shed
The cruelty in this poem is overwhelming – as Sassoon intended. So opposed was he to jingoistic propaganda, he deliberately slashed very tender imagery with the sharpest irony.
Seventeen years ago you said
Something that sounded like Good-bye;
And everybody thinks that you are dead,
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me