Siegfried Sassoon
Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame—
No, no, not that,—it’s bad to think of war,
When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you’re as right as rain…
Why won’t it rain?…
I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they’re so wise.
I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,—
Not people killed in battle,—they’re in France,—
But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died
Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
. . . .
You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You’d never think there was a bloody war on!…
O yes, you would… why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud,—quite soft… they never cease—
Those whispering guns—O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy;
I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem brings the internal conflict of a soldier haunted by the horrors of war to the forefront. The speaker tries to ground himself in the calm of home, lighting candles, smoking a pipe, and trying to push away the thoughts that bubble up in moments of stillness. But no matter how much he tries to distract himself with simple, peaceful actions, the overwhelming presence of war keeps creeping back into his mind, constantly reminding him of the trauma he’s endured.
The first section of the poem sets the stage for this conflict. The speaker starts with a casual act—lighting candles—but his thoughts quickly veer off course, turning the simple action into a metaphor for the dangers of glory and the destructive nature of war. The moth that flies into the flame is symbolic of soldiers, who, despite their best intentions, are often drawn into the destructive and inevitable violence of war, much like moths drawn to the light. The reference to the moth’s “scorching wings” hints at the damage done to those who engage in the war effort, a damage that cannot be undone.
The speaker then tries to regain control of his thoughts by focusing on physical actions—lighting a pipe, taking deep breaths, and counting to fifteen. This attempt to focus on mundane tasks in an effort to suppress his darker thoughts illustrates the desperation to maintain some sense of normalcy. However, it is clear that no matter how much he tries to ground himself, his mind continues to spiral. The request for rain to wash away the darkness, and the yearning for the roses to “hang their dripping heads,” speaks to the speaker’s desire for a cleansing, for an escape from the relentless pressure and confusion of war.
This inner struggle is further deepened as the speaker compares the peacefulness of home with the horror of war. While at home, surrounded by books and the stillness of a summer evening, he should be calm and at ease, but his mind refuses to cooperate. The sudden shift into thinking about ghosts, not soldiers killed in battle, but those “old men with ugly souls,” illustrates how the trauma of war isn’t just about the violence—it’s also about the impact it has on the mind. The ghosts here represent the haunting, long-lasting consequences of war that linger even after the fighting has stopped, making it impossible to truly escape.
The poem’s climax comes in the final lines, when the speaker can no longer ignore the sounds of war. The “whispering guns” represent the constant, inescapable noise of battle, something that continues even when the soldier is far removed from the frontlines. The quiet thuds that never cease are a reminder that, no matter how far he is from the battlefield, the war will never let him go. His cry, “O Christ, I want to go out / And screech at them to stop—I’m going crazy,” is a powerful expression of frustration and madness. The war, in all its horror, follows him, distorting his mind and making it impossible to find peace.
This poem captures the mental torment of a soldier trying to come to terms with his past experiences. It shows how the physical distance from the battlefield does little to ease the psychological scars left by war. Through the speaker’s internal monologue, we witness the difficulty of returning to normal life when the trauma of war is always lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to resurface at the slightest moment of quiet. The poem powerfully conveys the fact that, for those who have lived through the horrors of war, there is no real escape.