Rupert Brooke, Charles Sorley, Julian Grenfell, Isaac Rosenberg, Wilfred Owen, and Edward Thomas have in common at least the fact that they were English poets born sometime between 1875 and 1895 — and they all died between 1915 and 1918, mostly on the French battlefields of World War I. Brooke, whose “Sonnet Reversed” appeared as Poem of the Day in the sun last summer, is a dropped stitch in this pattern, having died in Greece, of blood poisoning from an insect bite, and not in battle. Still, he belongs, one of the lost World War I poets, a tragic club whose fame and pathos lie chiefly in its members’ unrealized potential. But in their truncated lifetimes, some of them were very good poets. Edward Thomas, for example, achieved a quiet greatness in his poem “Adlestrop,” the Sun’s Poem of the Day on June 16 of this year, and possibly the most famous war poem to take peace as its subject. Of many others we might say that a golden age of English poetry lay dead in the trenches. Or it might not. We’ll never know how good they would have been. But then there’s the other club of war poets: the ones who made it out alive. That list is longer than one might think. It includes Robert Graves, who went on to write the series of “I, Claudius” novels. It includes Edmund Blunden, later Professor of Poetry at Oxford (a post currently held by the American poet A.E. Stallings, whose “Another Lullaby for Insomniacs” was Poem of the Day in February). It includes Vera Brittain, author of the pacifist memoir “Testament of Youth.” And it includes Siegfried Sassoon, whose 1919 poem “Idyll” appears here today. This poem, written in the first year after the cessation of horrors, reads like a gasp of relief. In six rhymed pentameter couplets, it sketches a scene of utter peace in the unrealized light of a summer morning before reaching its reason for being. Its speaker, stepping into this garden to await a lover, does so in the awareness that his life and future have been handed back to him. He is reborn, brought back from death, alive to watch the inchoate day sharpen into focus and become what it will become. And if what that day became, for Sassoon the poet, was never quite the glorious dream our imaginations grant the fallen, still it’s something to have lived to see that day. Idyllby Siegfried SassoonIn the grey summer garden I shall find youWith day-break and the morning hills behind you.There will be rain-wet roses; stir of wings;And down the wood a thrush that wakes and sings.Not from the past you’ll come, but from that deepWhere beauty murmurs to the soul asleep:And I shall know the sense of life re-bornFrom dreams into the mystery of mornWhere gloom and brightness meet. And standing thereTill that calm song is done, at last we’ll shareThe league-spread, quiring symphonies that areJoy in the world, and peace, and dawn’s one star.___________________________________________With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by Joseph Bottum with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, the Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems are drawn from the deep traditions of English verse: the great work of the past and the living poets who keep those traditions alive. The goal is always to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.
