John William Streets

Image can be found here.

John William Streets, better known as Will Streets, was born on March 24, 1886, in Whitwell, Derbyshire, England. Streets grew up in a working-class mining family and followed his father into the coal pits, starting work as a miner at a young age. Despite his humble beginnings, Streets was an avid reader and self-taught poet, developing a passion for literature that set him apart from his peers. His work is often associated with the War Poets of World War I, though he was less widely known during his lifetime.

When the First World War broke out, Streets enlisted in the Sheffield City Battalion (12th Battalion, York and Lancaster Regiment) in 1914. Like many others, he joined with a sense of duty and optimism, which was soon replaced by the grim realities of trench warfare. The war had a profound impact on Streets, shaping both his poetry and his worldview. His work, which was deeply influenced by Romantic poets such as Wordsworth and Shelley, took on a somber tone as he grappled with themes of loss, sacrifice, and the devastation of modern conflict.

Streets was deployed to the Western Front, where he fought in some of the war’s most harrowing battles. His military career was tragically short. On July 1, 1916, the first day of the Battle of the Somme, Streets went over the top with his battalion. He was wounded during the assault but continued to fight until he went missing in action. His body was not recovered until ten months later, and he was buried at Euston Road Cemetery in Colincamps, France.

Before his death, Streets wrote a collection of poetry that provides an intimate glimpse into the life of a soldier during World War I. His poems reflect his dual identity as a miner and a poet, grounded in the working-class struggles of his upbringing while reaching for higher philosophical and emotional insights. His collection The Undying Splendour was published posthumously in 1917, gaining attention for its stark yet lyrical portrayal of the war.

Streets’ legacy lies in his ability to articulate the experiences of ordinary soldiers with both sensitivity and depth. His poems capture the camaraderie, fear, and longing for home that defined life in the trenches. While his life was cut short at 31, his work endures as a poignant reminder of the human cost of war and the enduring power of art to give voice to those who might otherwise be forgotten. Today, Streets is remembered as one of the many voices silenced by the Great War, yet his poetry ensures that his story, and the stories of countless others, live on.

The following was written by his commanding officer and is at the beginning of his poshumously published work “The Undying Splendour,” serving as a tribute to the young man.

Furness Hospital for Officers,
Harrogate,
7th April, 1917.
Dear Sirs,
I understand you are publishing a book of the
verses of Sergt. J. W. Streets .
If his verses are as good as his reputation as a
soldier, you may rest assured that the book will be
a great success.
Streets was a member of my Company since the
commencement of the War, and his reputation as
a thoroughly reliable N.C.O. , gained in England
and in Egypt, was enhanced when we were trans-
ferred to France.
He was conspicuous amongst a battalion of
brave men who formed the left wing battalion of
the great Allied advance on the 1st July. He
fell along with the remainder of his comrades, and
died as he had lived-a MAN.
Need I say more ?
It was a privilege to command such men.
Yours faithfully,
A. PLACKETT,
Major.

You may learn more at the War Poets.org and Wikipedia.

To W.H.W.

John William Streets
You called to me from o’er the restless tide :

Within the deepening shades of Death’s confines,
-Like winds grown free among the forest pines

Now and After.

John William Streets
NOW

” Mother of England ! why do you weep ? “
‘ My heart’s with the fate of my own dearest sons

To a Dead Poet.

John William Streets
I, too, have loved with you our mother Earth :

Listen’d at pensive eve the lyric thrush
Shake out his ecstasy to lovely birth

The Hedge.

John William Streets
Like memories born in a dream my Fancy around thee plays,

Re-embodies the life, the beauty of olden days
That were thine ere the scourge of war-aflame in the sweet blue sky-

A Lark Above the Trenches.

John William Streets
Hushed is the shriek of hurtling shells hark !

Somewhere within that bit of soft blue sky-
Grand in his loneliness, his ecstasy,

The Song of the Crusaders.

John William Streets
Freemen of England ! born upon an isle

Steel-girt, inviolate, bred beneath a sky
That looketh down with a benignant smile

Impression.

John William Streets
A breath of wind ; a fragrant memory ;

Soft music and the magic of a song ;
A night beneath whose moonlight pale and strong

A Nocturne.

John William Streets
Night broodeth o’er the solitude serene

As some glad mother o’er her first-born child,
Pouring her gladness on the shadowy scene

To…

John William Streets
Two shining eyes that never lose their light,

Haunting with dreams like stars within the
night ;

My Hope.

John William Streets
You came into the shadow of my grief

( A lovely vision radiating light) ;
Your passing was as soulful and as brief

The Miracle of the Cross.

John William Streets
Showers of shrapnel, scream of deadly shells ;

And broken lie the belfry’s prayerful bells
Amid the silent, ruined cloisters, where

Serenity.

John William Streets
Peace can be found in strife : artillery

Are belching forth this sweet, entrancing morn
Their projectiles of death : yet as in scorn,

Love of Life.

John William Streets
Reach out thy hands, thy spirit’s hands to me

And pluck the Youth, the magic from my heart-
Magic of dreams whose sensibility

Shelley in the Trenches.

John William Streets
Impressions are like winds ; you feel their cool

Swift kiss upon the brow, yet know not where
They sprang to birth : so like a pool

April Evening : France, 1916.

John William Streets
O sweet blue eve that seems so loath to die,

Trailing the sunset glory into night,
Within the soft, cool strangeness of thy light,

Comrades.

John William Streets
Those whom I’ve known, admired, ardently friended

Lie silent there wrapp’d in a soldier’s shroud ;
Death broke their dreams, their aspirations ended,

Remembrance.

John William Streets
Sweet are the wind’s soft kisses on the brow ;

Sweet is the singing of the mated bird ;
Sweet is the scent of blossom on the bough ;

The Wayside Cross.

John William Streets
Beneath a hawthorn bush, dying, he lay

Upon an orchard slope, a gentle hill ;
The silvery moonlight thro’ the night did play

A Soldiers’ Cemetery.

John William Streets
Behind that long and lonely trenched line

To which men come and go, where brave men die,
There is a yet unmarked and unknown shrine,

The Dead: A Requiem.

John William Streets
Let music vast, triumphal, fill the world’s great nave,

Voicing the peerless theme of noble youth
Who rose to Life’s sublimest greatness at the grave

Gallipoli.

John William Streets
Upon the margin of a rugged shore

There is a spot now barren, desolate,
A place of graves, sodden with human gore

The Night- Watch.

John William Streets
A lonely moorland stretching far

Beneath the stars ‘ eternal light ;
A sentry standing there alone

A Soldier’s Funeral.

John William Streets
No splendid show of solemn funeral rite,

No stricken mourners following his bier,
No peal of organ reaching thro ‘ his night,

An English Soldier.

John William Streets
He died for love of race : because the blood

Of Northern freeman swell’d his veins : arose
True to tradition that like mountain stood

Matthew Copse.

John William Streets
Once in thy secret close, now almost bare,

Peace yielded up her bountiful largess ;
The dawn dropp’d sunshine thro ‘ they leafy

Sunset : Hurdcott Camp.

John William Streets
Hushed is the wind upon the southern hill :

It died e’en as the sunset in the west
Swoon’d Cleopatra-like ; upon its breast

At Dawn in France.

John William Streets
Night on the plains, and the stars unfold

The cycle of night in splendour old ;
The winds are hushed, on the fire-swept hill

Hymn to Life : Hurdcott Camp.

John William Streets
I hear thy voice in the lonely pines

When the winds arise in their unknown lair ;
In the rush of waves in the caves ‘ confines ;

The Undying Splendour – XI. MOURNING.

John William Streets
How aspen whisperings by the meadow stream ;

Long agonies of night-winds in the forest pines ;
Wail of some love- bird who has lost his dream ;

April Evening, 1916

John William Streets
O sweet blue eve that seems so loath to die,

Trailing the sunset glory into night,
Within the soft, cool strangeness of thy light,

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Discover more from War Poetry

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading