OUT OF BATTLE Also by Jon Silkin

Selected P~m5 The Lens-Breakers Gurney, a play in verse The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry (tditor) The Penguin Book of First World War Prose ((o -tdilor with J on Glovtr) The Life of Metrical and Free Verse in Twentieth-Century Poetry Shaping a R epublic Out of Battle The Poetry of the Great War Jon Silkin

Second Edition

palgrave Published in Great Britain by MACMILLAN PRESS LTD Houndmill~, Basingsloke. Hampshire RG21 6XS and London Companies and representatives throughOUt the world

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ISBN 978-0-333-65399-9 ISBN 978-0-230-37480-5 (eBook) DOI 10.1057/9780230374805

Published in the United States of America by ST. MARTIN'S PRESS, INC •• Scholarly and Reference Division, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010 ISBN 978-()..312-21404-3 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sirkin, Jon. OUt of battle : the poetry of the Great War I by Jon Silkin.- 2nded. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and indeJ(. ISBN 978-O-J12-21404-J (cloth) I. English IXlCtry-2Oth century-History and criticism. 2. World War, 1914--1918-Lilera\ure and the war. 3. War poetry, English• - Hislory and criticism. I. Title. PR60S. W6SS5 1998 821' .91209358-----dc21 97-52925 CIP CJonSilkin'sestate 1972, 1987,1998 Appendbo:: Wilfred Owen's MissinR Folio C Robert A, Christoforides 1997 First edilion O)(ford University Press 1972 -Published in paperback by Ark 1987 Second edition Macmillan 1998 Offset from the O)lford University Press edition of 1972 by pennission of the publishers.

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Transferred to digital printing 2001 CONTENTS

Preface VI

Preface [0 the Second Edition vii

Acknowledgments XVIll

CHAPTER I Introduction

2 Thomas Hardy 32

3 Rudyard Kipling and Rupert Brooke 56

4 Charles Sorley and others 70

5 Edward Thomas 85

6 Edmund Blunden and Ivor Gurney 102

7 Siegfried Sassoon 130

8 Herbert Read, Richard Aldington and Ford Madox Ford 168

9 Wilfred Owen 197

to Isaac Rosenberg 249

11 David Jones 315

12 Conclusion 341 Appendix: Wilfred Owen's Missing Folio 351 Select Bibliography 355 Index 365 PREFACE

I should like [0 thank the many people who have helped with this book since it was begun in I959, the year of the Rosenberg Ex• hibition held at the , then under the Vice• Chancellorship of Charles Morris. The exhibition was opened by the late Herbert Read, and prepared jointly hy the late Maurice de Sausmarez and myself. I should like to thank the University libraries of Leeds and Newcastle, and also the library of the Newcastle Liter• ary and Philosophical Society, for all their help and kindness during the writing of this book. I am especially grateful to Geoffrey Matthews, who worked with me on the initial stages of the book; and Catherine Lamb, who read and fe-read the early draft and co• operated on some of the research. At a later stage, John Press gave the text a close reading and made valuable suggestions for its re• duction and improvement. Jon Stall worthy further assisted with the work of condensation; his constant questioning and sympathy helped it over the last lap on its way to the printer. I am grateful to Mrs. Phyllis McDougall, who prepared the index. I have also to thank John Smith for his patience with the book, and Ken Smith, who at all times encouraged me to persist with those insights which have shaped it. I am equally grateful to Geoffrey Hill for discussing Rosen• berg and Owen with me over a long period, and to those other critics and friends who have helped me towards an understanding of the poets and the poetry here discussed. The section on Rosenberg's God first appeared in European Judaism (1970); brief versions of work on Owen, Rosenberg, and Sassoon first appeared in Stand (1960, 1965). ).s. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

Some objections have been made against anthologies devoted to war poetry, one of which was made recently (1996) by Edna Longley in Podry R w ;t:1P :

War poeu y should not be half-delegated to specialist anthologies I'm not SUfe about 'delegated' (or its printer's devil 'relegated'), but in the main disapproval seems to centre on the notion that to divide ofT war poetry from other verse creates an artificial category, distorting the work and misleading the reader. The division into centuries, or into Irish and English verse, is perhaps as 'misleading'. or arbitrary; but in any case one answer to her objection is found in Clausewitz's dictum, 'War is a continuation of State policy by other means'. Here are two understandings. One is that peace and war exist in the same political continuum, which is true if in the peace there is an implied aggression; but the other is that war is qualitatively different from peace as an activity. Only those who have not been in war may feel able to reject that latter idea. in a poem from the Second World War makes this point:

Word came to him in the bullet shower that he should be a h ero briskly, and he was that while he lasted but it wasn't much time he got. I saw a great warrior of England, a poor manikin on whom no eye would rest; no Alasdair of Glen Garry; and he took a little weeping to my eyes. (,Heroes') The problem with an objection to the classification 'war poetry' is that it treats such poeuy as though its supreme and supervening category were poetry; whereas I suggest that this is arguable, for war is both a supreme pressure as well as a distinct one. War kills, poets amongst others. For some poets war is their dleme, or a recognizably distinct portion of their preoccupations. Consider Rosenberg'S comments on Vlll Prejil(~ to the Second Eilition Whitman and his war poetry. These questions do not contradict the requirement that all poetry aspire to the conditions of excellence, but they do ask that we consider war poetry as creation arising from a particular experience, even if other experiences, not directly concerned with war, may partly undertone it. To say this differently, the activity of war (it is not an 'art') is not different in degree but in kind from other experience. War is not part of say a genus containing trade and banking. War intends conquest or defeat through death. It rouses many emotions, these responses actuated, perhaps, simultaneously, but their totality and aim will be different from those deriving directly from war. 'The pity of war, the pity war distilled.' In Paradise Lost Milton registers this difference when he causes Lucifer and his angels to rebel against God with the result that the parties go to war. The account of the Satanic artillery of trajected trees, which tactic temporarily dismays the angelic host, is a poetry wrinen within an emotional understanding of war. If the hosts on either side had been killable, Milton would, at this juncture in his epic, have been writing a poetry as much classifiable as war poetry as Rosenberg's. Yeats's exclusion of Owen from his Th( Oxford Book of Modern Verse (1936) was probably not only the result of philosophk:al and aesthetic antipathies but also, perhaps, because Owen was writing a poetry direcdy to do with combat, what ever else -'He (Owen) is all blood and sugar-sucked candy' wrote Yeats. On the other hand Yeats's airman seems not to be concerned with combat. Owen's poetry, arising out of involvement with war, may be contrasted with the very best of that underrated poet, Herbert Read. His 'The End of a War' (1933) was a work much more to Yeats's {aste, and it was the only war poem, a long one, that Yeats included in his anthology. If we allow that Sassoon's best poetry is probably that directly to do with the war; and that Gurney's most haunting and in certain senses mesmerized poetry comes from or through his experience of war, we should admit the taxonomy that speaks of 'war poetry' to be justifiable and valid. On the edge of this area of war poetry as I have briefly characterized it exist two poems of contrasting lengths: Eliot's Th~ Wo!k Land and Gurney's 'April Gale'. I have wrinen e1sewhe~e at some length on Eliot's poem but I include a response to Gurney's four-line poem near the end of this Preface. Although there are signs of a change, a number of critics have Preface to the Second Edition nevertheless postulated or assumed that language must be the principal touchslOne with respect to evaluating a poem. I would nevertheless suggest that this claim- that we cannot think and respond except through language-needs qualification. Certainly it might be said that it is not with the instrument of language that we have our experiences. If this formulation is true in any part, it follows that the centre, the affecting/affective centre of a great deal of poetry, is not only language but ex,perience, with language joining with experience at some deep formative level to creare the poem. Nevertheless it is probably the experiential component th~t helps to make this war poetry of such long-lasting interest to a wide range of readers. Thus Owen's 'Strange Meeting' is a debate between two soldiers (or, as some believe, one between Owen's ego and alter ego); but crucial though the language is to the argument, the debate is not in the first and crucial instance rooted in language but, through language, in experience of a particular kind: 'for so you frowned/Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.' Rosenberg more actively re-models form and language than Owen, but I would argue that Rosenberg's poetic sophistication abets the crucial role of experience and its distillation. It does not make the experiential the servant of language, nor the reverse. The more sophisticated Rosenberg's use of language, the greater the force and role of experience in his work; for this to be seen, consult stanza four of his 'Dead Man's Dump'. In a different way, Celan's poetry has experience (though not war) at its responsive core. I have not made extreme claims; and even if one difference between Rosenberg's and Owen's poetry is how Owen's eloquence carries the burdened message, whereas Rosenberg's language expresses the experience, it is nevertheless (rue that each poet brings poetry to experience. It is all they have, but, my God, it is all they have. In poetry of this kind, and I include in 'kind' the best of Gurney and Read, I suggest that poetry becomes the bitter or chill eloquence of experience. Not eloquence as persuasion but as the verbal expression of experience, the recreating expression and distillation. This poetry is also eloquent in that it has not been traumatized by the experience. The expression of it is responsive and sensitive; consider Owen's 'Insensibility'. In a similar way, although I do not read Russian, my understanding of Tolstoy's short novel, Hadji Mural', is that it is lhe idea of experience which x PrefIJ(( to the Suond Editwn prompts the eloquence. The role of the thistle, in this narrative that is intertwined with war, appears to support this. I wiU now look briefly at some instances to indicate my understanding of what distinguishes and characterizes war poetry. and the crucial role of experience in this work. It is, among other things, such experience in imimate comact with the poet's ego. It may be that what makes Owen's, Rosenberg's and Read's 'The End of a War' major, perhaps even great, poetry, is the way in which the necessary ego is nevertheless forced to give ground [0 experience because the latter is so 'dire', The ego being in part displaced, energy of a most crucial kind is released by a less self-recollecting part of the psyche. and so admitted and enrolled into eloquence as I have defined it above. Here are a few instances of the experiential in its crucial and indispensable existence. In proceeding, 1 suggest, again, that one possible reason for the enduring popularity of war poetry, even over the prose, is that it deals in the experiential in an intimate way. Thus this experiential component is doubled for we read not only the recalled experience the poetry expresses but also the creator's response to such experience. In any event, experience is the single common denominator we may all be sure of having however they differ. Beyond that experience of experience, our sharing declines. In war poetry the physical instances of experience are readily and terribly available, but I suggest that what is even more important and compelling for us as readers is the example of a person who undergoes and responds to an experience. This might seem to be veering towards that kind of 'philosophizing' in poetry which is achieved at the expense of its responsiveness; but if the experiential remains sufficiently strong, it will prevent the work from settling into that so~cal1ed objectivity and magisterial detachment that so desensitizes the writing. Keeping in mind these dangers, I still feel [he substance and active response to an experience of war in these lines from Owen's 'Strange Meeting':

For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of mr weeping something had been left, Which must die now . .. .

The dead and bayoneted German soldier is explaining [0 the enemy Pre/tiC( to the Second Edition who killed him, and whom he recognized when the latter was 'inspecting' hell, how he would have enabled a set of positive responses ('The Pity of War') had he been allowed to survive. These are constituents of experience such as many must have felt before combat did or did nO( destroy them. The slain German soldier (a 'conscript', in an earlier version of the line 'I am the enemy you killed, my friend'), deplores the fact that he cannot now convey an understanding to those who will survive the war; trun is, his knowledge and wisdom die with him. To repea( the evident, the wisdom comes from an experience of war, and it is this which would encide one co speak of 'war poetry', of that which deals with a particularized experience, eliciting responses not regularly found 'in normal circumstances'. In Owen's lines the expressive communication is effected by the emphatic movement within the iambic pentameter. The emphases are supported, partly through the alliterative head-rhymes and assonance (in the first line above), and in part by the conversion of those schematically weaker syllables in the iambic foot into ones stressed, or into lengthened and weighted ones. This results in a mixture of accemuai verse (stressed syllables) and quantitative (syllables with length and duration):

_/_--L.._ , , ~ For br mr g!~ might many men have laughed What may affect us in reading this and the succeeding lines is the candid fusing of experience (shared and shareable) with personal deploration. The reader is moved not only by discovering again the generosicy of human beings under abnormal circumsrances but also by the inability of the slain man to do what he wishes. This latter is expressed painfully in the subjunctive mood of the verbs in the first two lines-'might','had'-which is followed by the fusion of indicative with subjunctive in 'must' of the third line, which seems to mean both 'will' and 'is likely to'. In these lines the understanding of the slain soldier is that he cannot contribute to the wisdom of the living, and the very meeting with his slayer, in hell, serves to emphasize such incapacity. Rosenberg's poetry is, from one view-point, less evidently eloquent than Owen's; it is rarely cast in the modes of outrage, overt sympathy or persuasion, and the programme of melioration, where it exists, is more generally diffused than Owen's. But in the sense xii Preface to the Second EditIOn that I have described eloquence, Rosenberg's is essentially an experiential eloquence and in certain respects Rosenberg is an even more physical poet than Owen, But his physicality is registered in an assertion of how things are, which makes his registration of war even more uncompromising than Owen's, We remember that his parents were Tolsroyans, whereas Owen's father seems to have felt that it was his son's duty to enlist l , The non-persuasive character of Rosenberg'S verse makes it, for this reader, stronger, and I suggest that it is in this mode of 'how things are' which, in the Second World War, touched the poet Keith Douglas:

Ro~enberg I only repeat what you were saying• the shell and the hawk every hour arc slaying men and jerboas, slaying the mind: ", (,Desert Flowers', Egypt, 1943) In any event the horrifying physicality, unadjoined to any programme, appears in the opening lines of stanza twO of Rosenberg's 'Dead Man's Dump': The wheels lurched oyer sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones'crunched , , ,

We believe we accept that the dead cannot feel, yet we are not fully able to keep this belief active; it is this inability that makes 'crunched'so horrifying. Nor, however, should we assume, with the dead being everywhere visible. that. the living soldiers had lost respect for the bodies of the slain. It is not that Owen is not close to the physical nature of war. but that Rosenberg is. A similar strategy concerning our responses to the dead (or dying) being violated by war is involved in stanza nine of DMD: A man's brains splutered on A stretcher-bearer's face; His shook shoulders slipped their load, .

This. I suggest again, is war poetry and not the poetry of 'normal circumstances', What gives such war experience another rearful dimension is 'he aspect of the dead on the battlefield:

I See Tony Conran's essay 'War' in ViJ iollJ ami Pruy inJ Allin/ids (IY97). Pr~fact' to tilt' Second E,litton XIII , , , BUrnt black by strange decay , , Their sinister faces lie, The lid over each eye, , , ~ The gi"iSi and coloured d ay More m6tion have than th;y, Joined to the great sunk silences. It may be that both grass and clay are joined to these 'sunk silences', but it is more likely mat the connection is between silences and the dead. With Owen's verse we usually respond to some sense of a person, the poet perhaps, speaking his urgent concerns. Here, in this stanza from DMD, it is as if the authorial presence itself is withdrawn. As if what speaks aloud is the condition of the dead in relation to the 'great sunk silences'. This could of course be a passjlge about all me dead in relation to this collective silence; but it is the nature of their sudden death, those slain by the human agency of war, that gives this relationship its special character. This is registered by the participial adjective 'sunk' and appears to indicate the young men with their foreshortened lives. The 'sunk silences' are indeed mysterious bur they correspond to the .condition of that particular kind of death and [he unnatural circumstances in which mese deaths occurred. It is such unnatural conditions that Rosenberg everywhere deplores in his verse; one notes it in particular in stanza four of this poem and of course in his 'Daughters in War'. To express the ominousness embodied in the stanza above, which is no less ominous than Owen's 'Strange Meeting', Rosenberg employs a strongly emphasized iambic trimeter. This three-stress measure is comparable with Owen's pentameter, partly because both poets use monosyllables at these comparable points, which, by their nature, acquire emphases even when, theoretically, they occupy weak positions within the metricality. But additionally, Rosenberg's lines, like Owen's, are strongly alliterative; and his half-rhymes, here mixed with full ones, are as effective as those in 'Strange Meeting' though their effect is different: strange decay/li e! eye!they

Like Voznesensky's war poem 'Goya'!, the effect IS of a tolling

I StllndVol. 7,Nu.2. XIV Pre/ocr to the Second Edition disquiet. Where Owen's paired rhymes express both uncertainty and a panern of pain coupled with resignation, Rosenberg's convey a sense of being shocked by these disclosures. One notices how the titde increase in momentum in line four

The grass and coloured clay expresses a quickening response to life where there is presently very little. This motion is annulled in the following line, which begins with a word of several syllables but ends monosyllabically. What assists the motion in the previous line is the sense of a reversal of stress on 'coloured', but which in fact does not occur. The apparent not actual reversal of stress is contributed to by the alliteration in ',I;.oloured day'. Finally, this quickening is achieved by the word 'coloured' crossing over metrical feet in the scansion

The grass I and col loured day. One further notices that a different kind of dancing movement is offered and available as an alternative reading:

The grass and / coloured day. I suggest that the variety of rhythmic and sonic possibilities of this line arise from a verse terribly close to the experiential.

I end up with a note on Gurney, one of whose poems I coupled with Eliot's The WUSlt' Lantl. I quote all four lines of his 'April Gale', which in P: J. Kavanagh's Collutrd POftnJ of h 'OT Gurney (1982) occurs in the section headed '1919-1922'. I earlier suggested that Eliot's and Gurney's poems occurred at the edge of that area many called 'war poetry' and which, with extended hindsight, we might see as darkened by the experience of war. Gurney, of course, was a private in the Gloucesters, serving on the Western Front. With these things in mind, r offer what I wrote about Gurney's poem 'April Gale', in a note I first published in StUnt' (Vol. 25, No.4, Autumn 1984). Within that 1919- 1922 period, Gurney found a way of being modern without, it would seem, his even trying to be so. For Gurney, it meant his setting aside the educated aureate diction of the poetic, and of finding in himself direct utterance, the odd, the Pre/dU to tIlt! St:Cond Edition quirky, the peculiar even- anything that would match his apprehension of what Rosenberg in a letter to Laurence Binyon (1916) described as 'the strange and extraordinary new conditions of this life'. Rosenberg has been describing the 'hell' of the trenches; Gurney was now writing of that as well as of the 'strange hell' of existing within his own life:

The wind frightens my dog, but I bathe in it, Sound, rush, scent of the spring fields. My dog's hairs are blown like feathers askew, My coat's a demon, torturing like life. CApril Gale') Gurney's directness there is close to speech, and he obtains this effect by having the short completed units of syntax coincide with line-endings. The result is that he makes the hurled, almost gasping, speech appear both exclamatory and contained. Here the speech• units resemble speech. At the same time he ties them down in such a way as to indicate that the line-unit, a basic component of poetry, is a controlling factor. Gurney perhaps learned this from Whitman in whose work each line of verse is end-stopped no matter how long, or abbreviated, the line, or how many syntactic units occur within thar line. It is as if Whitman had recognized his tendency for the oracular, and decided that his punctuation would act like moral tent• pegs, tying down the lines, in verse, in order (Q prevent them from becoming self-proclaiming, and deaf to all but his own voiu . On the contrary, Whitman hears his own utterance, and the end-stopped lines work towards a self-auditing completeness. Gurney's end• stopped lines work to meet a different problem, but the effect is similar-that of a man in control of his voice as a result of his listening to it. To ruffle this sense of completedness and control however, the units within the lines enact spurts of disturbance, and support the extreme disturbance in which the poem's sense-meaning is so deeply grounded- 'torturing like life'. Finally, the image of the dog frightened by the wind is made to represent Gurney's self-fear; he achieves this not merely by interleaving the image of his dog with himself, by means of the word 'coat' , but also by his bringing together dog and man through the third image of the bird, a crearure part of the elemental disturbance- 'feathers'. Here is Gurney's dilemma. He relishes this creaturely mode ' I bathe in iI', but he is XVI Puface to the Suond EditIOn also much disturbed by it- 'My coat's a demon'. The doubleness is directly expressed. l To consolidate a simple point, the physical nature of this poem is powerful because it conveys a self-auditing experience the nature of which is identified in 'torturing', which becomes Gurney's key perception of his life. If this condition was not absent from his experience before the war, it was cerrainiy not lessened by his experience of the Front. What disarms one with Gurney is the uncensored nature of his expression. This might seem to suggest a naive untutored writer, who achieves satisfactory expression not because of but despite himself. But the uncensored undiplomatic nature of his expression is a frequent and strategic pan of his respouses. In a letter of 21 November 1917 to his older friend Marion Scott he observes:

... By the way, some time ago Sassoon walked up [0 his wlone! and said he would fi ght no more. Flashes, of course: and blue fire. There were questions in the House, and a general dust-up; but at last they solved it in a becoming official fashion , and declared him mad, and put him in a lunatic-asylum; from which there will soon come a second book, and that it will be interesting [0 see ... This was wrinen from Seaton Delaval in Nonhumberland a little under four months after Sassoon had arri\'ed at Craiglockhart hospital for shell-shocked soldiers. This commentary is undiplomatic and jt seems as jf Gurney ~akes delight in its being so. For Gurney is indeed knowledgeable about himself and others. In an earlier letter to the same re~ipient (tate June/early July 1917?) he writes: Does it (war] sound interesting? May God forgive me if I ever come to cheat myself into thinking that it was, and lie later to younger men of the Great Days. which is the counterpart to the conclusion of Owen's poem 'Dulce Et Decorum-Est'. And yet, like Rosenberg, Gurney is not sheathed in any programme. In for instance 'The Silent One' he recreates what he sees as the courageous foolhardiness of the man who Yet faced unbroken wires; stepped over, and went A noble fool, faithful to his stripes - and ended.

Cowpt:r in 'John Gilpin' also uses an animal 10 re!(istcr his sense or the pmn:r uf thuSt: impulM:~ in the less cunsciuus parts uf the mind. Prejau (I) tht! Second E(l/llOn XVII He truckles neither to patriotism nor its reverse. He notes the man's vitality, by fusing the musical and bird-like with the human in his rendering of the man's speech - Infinite lovely chatter of Bucks accent: One final registration of Gurney's experiential mode-and one feels how insistently yet delicately Gurney achieves it. The poem 'It Is Near Toussaints' concludes with: On the night of all the dead, they will remember me, Pray Michael, Nicholas, Maries lost in Novembery River-mist in the old City of our dear love, and batter At doors about the farms crying 'Our is lost. Madam(~no bon!'~and cry his two names, warningly, sombrely. One way of reaching into these lines might be to ponder {he idea that had Gurney been allowed to be free of torment, he might have become, or remained, a solitary. As it was, he stayed lonely, not without friends, but then, although solaced by them, unable to be comforted by these loved ones. In these lines Gurney is able to hear his voice and realize that the voice is not in right connection with others who, through their love might help (Q remove the extraordinary ache, and pain, from his life. Yes, there is the 'old City of our dear love', which indicates Gloucester as well as the imaginary City of love; yet this apprehension requires, but docs not get, a fully achieved communication with either, the admirable Canon Cheesman not withstanding. The 'farms', the doors of which he is to batter on for admission or welcome, but from which he gets no response, contextualize an existing loneness reinforced by there being no answer. Indeed what 'reply' could there have been to 'Our war poet is lost. I Mutiumt'-no bon."? It was all true. The humour of the macaronic Anglo-French (English soldier-speak of the Western Front) underscores the loneliness of the one lost, but also a courageous and uncensored expression of his own voice crying our, and hearing itself. If 'his two names' were lvor Gurne}~ (hey might also have been 'lost poet'. That is experience.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE Sadly Jon Silkin died on 25 November 1997 while this second edition was in the press. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks are due to [he publishers and copyrighr holders listed below for permission to quote from the following works:

RICHARD ALDINGTON, Complete Poems (1949); The Estate of Richard Aldington and Rosiea Colin Ltd.

En.\ IUND BLUNDF.N, Poems /914-J930 (1930) and Undertones of War (1928): Peters Fraser & Dunlop Group Ltd and Claire Blunden. RUPERT BROOKE, Poetical Works, Edited by Geoffrey Keynes (1946): Sidgwick & Jackson Lcd. and Faber & Faber Lcd.: utter!, Edited by Geoffrey Keynes (1968): Faber & Faber Ltd.

FORD MAOOX FORO, BUCKSh(1! (Cambridge, Mass., 1966) and Selected Poems, Edited by Basil Bunting (Cambridge, Mass.• 1971): Miss Janice Biala, David Higham Associates Ltd., and the Pym• Randall Press, Cambridge, Mass. IVOR GURNEY, Col/cete,I Ponns of Ivor Gurney, Edited by P.). Kavanagh, Oxford University Press 1982. THmlAS HARDY, Collected p f)ems (1930, reprinted 1952) and The pynasts (1924, reprinted 1930): the Trustees of the Hardy Estate, Macmillan London and Basingstoke, and The Macmillan Company, New York. D AV ID JONES. In Parenthesis (1937, reprinted 1963) and Epoch ami Artist, Edited by Harman Grisewood (1959): Faber & Faber Ltd. RUDYARD KIPLING. Rudyard Kipling's Verse. Definitive Edition (1940): A.P. Watt Ltd., on behalf of The National Trust. WILFRED OWEN, The pf)ems oI Wilfred Owen, Edited with a memoir and notes by Edmund Blunden (1933): Peters Fraser & Dunlop Ltd. and Claire B1unden. The Collated Lmers of Wilfred Owen, Edited by Harold Owen and John Bell (1967); Oxford University Press. HERBERT READ, Collated Poems (1966) and The Contra'.}' Experienu (1963): The Herbert Read Trust and the trustee, Benedict Read. Ackno/1J/t'l/gment5 xix ISAAC ROSENBERG, The Collatt'll Works, Edited by Gordon Bottomley and D.w. Harding (1937), Charto & Windus Ltd, and Isaac Rmenbag 189(~/918: Catalogue with LetleTS, Edited by Maurice de Sausmarcz and Jon Silkin (Leeds, 1959). SIEGfRIED SI\SSOON, Collt.'ctrtl Poons (1947), The Complete MmlOlrS of George SheTSton {including Memoirs of (J Foxhunting Man; Memoirs of an Injimtry Ojjiur; Shenton's ProgreJJ) (1937): Mr G.T. Sassoon and Barbara Levy. EDW;\RD THO,\lAS, Collected Poems (1936): Mrs. Myfanwy Thomas. and co (he copyright holders for brief extracts quoted from the ~ollowing: Henri Barbusse: Unda Fm:, translated by W. Fitzwater Wray (l916, 1960): J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd; Bernard Bergonzi, Haoes' Twilight (1965): the author and Macmillan; Francis Berry, Habat Read (1961): the author; E.H. Carr, International Relations Slnu tht Peau TmHlts (1937): the author and Macmillan; William Cooke, Edward Thomas: a Critical Biography (1970): the author; Paul Fussell, The Grl'al War ami Modan Memory (1975): the author and Oxford University Press; Robert Graves, Goodbye to All That (1929, reprimed 1960): A.P. Watt Ltd. on behalf of the Executors of the Estate of Robert Graves; John CIa reiSelected Poems, edited by Geoffrey Grigson (1950): Caroline Grigson and Jane Grigson;John Hale, 'War and Public Opinion in the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries': the author and Past und Present, 175 Banbury Road, Oxford; Michael Hurd: The Ordeal of Ivor Gurney (1978): [he author and Oxford University Press; John H. Johnston, of the FlTSt World War (1964): the author and Princeton University Press; FR. Leavis, Nul' Bearings in English Poetry (1932, reprinted 1963): Chano & Windus Ltd.; Saunders Lt:wis, 'Epoch and Artist', Agenda, Spring-Summer 1967: the author and Agt'nda; Edna Longley and Poetry Raiew; Harold Owen, Journey iTom Obscurity, Vol. III (1965): Oxford UniverSity Press; Bertrand Russell, Fradom L'ersus Organization, 1776-1914 (1965): George Allen & Unwin Ltd. and w.w. Norton & Co Inc., New Yorkj , EdWllrd Thomas (1963): the author; C.K. Stead, The New Poetic (1964): the author and Century Hutchinson Ltd.; A.J.P. Taylor: The First World War (1963): the aUlhor, and published by Hamish Hamilton; Lawrence Thompson, Rohat Frost: Thl' Ear~) 1 xx AcknorPledgments Yt'urs (1967): the author, Jonathan Cape Ltd., and Henry Holt and Company, New York; W.B . Yeats: The Oxford Book of MOl/ern Verse (1936): Oxford University Press.