"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the Line, Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. * * * * * But he did for them both by his plan of attack. Mr. Sassoon's verse is also of importance because it paints life in the trenches with a realism not to be found elsewhere in the English poetry of the war. He spares us nothing of: The strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. He gives us every detail of the filth, the dullness, and the agony of the trenches. His book is in its aim destructive. It is a great pamphlet against war. If posterity wishes to know what war was like during this period, it will discover the truth, not in _Barrack-room Ballads_, but in Mr. Sassoon's verse. The best poems in the book are poems of hatred. This means that Mr. Sassoon has still other worlds to conquer in poetry. His poems have not the constructive ardour that we find in the revolutionary poems of Shelley. They are utterances of pain rather than of vision. Many of them, however, rise to a noble pity--_The Prelude_, for instance, and _Aftermath_, the latter of which ends: Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz,-- The night you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench,-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, "Is it all going to happen again?" Do you remember that hour of din before the attack-- And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads,--those ashen-grey Masks of the lad who once were keen and kind and gay? _Have you forgotten yet?..._ _Look up, and swear by the green of the Spring that you'll never forget._ Mr. Sitwell's satires--which occupy the most interesting pages of _Argonaut and Juggernaut_--seldom take us into the trenches. Mr. Sitwell gets all the subjects he wants in London clubs and drawing-rooms. These "free-verse" satires do not lend themselves readily to quotation, but both the manner and the mood of them can be guessed from the closing verses of _War-horses_, in which the "septuagenarian butterflies" of Society return to their platitudes and parties after seeing the war through: But now They have come out. They have preened And dried themselves After their blood bath. Old men seem a little younger, And tortoise-shell combs Are longer than ever; Earrings weigh down aged ears; And Golconda has given them of its best.