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About this poet

Alan Seeger was born in New York City on June 22, 1888, and received a BA from Harvard University in 1910. Known for his poetic representation of the First World War, he was the author of Poems (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1916) and Letters and Diary of Alan Seeger (Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1917), both published posthumously. In a review for The Egoist in 1917, T. S. Eliot wrote that Poems “is high-flown, heavily decorated and solemn, but the solemnity is thoroughgoing, not a mere literary formality.” After joining the French Foreign Legion in 1914, Seeger was killed in action in northern France on July 4, 1916.

The Aisne (1914 – 15)

We first saw fire on the tragic slopes 
     Where the flood-tide of France's early gain, 
Big with wrecked promise and abandoned hopes, 
     Broke in a surf of blood along the Aisne. 

The charge her heroes left us, we assumed, 
     What, dying, they reconquered, we preserved, 
In the chill trenches, harried, shelled, entombed, 
     Winter came down on us, but no man swerved. 

Winter came down on us. The low clouds, torn 
     In the stark branches of the riven pines, 
Blurred the white rockets that from dusk till morn 
    Traced the wide curve of the close-grappling lines. 

In rain, and fog that on the withered hill 
    Froze before dawn, the lurking foe drew down; 
Or light snows fell that made forlorner still 
    The ravaged country and the ruined town; 

Or the long clouds would end. Intensely fair, 
    The winter constellations blazing forth—
Perseus, the Twins, Orion, the Great Bear—
    Gleamed on our bayonets pointing to the north. 

And the lone sentinel would start and soar 
    On wings of strong emotion as he knew 
That kinship with the stars that only War 
    Is great enough to lift man's spirit to. 

And ever down the curving front, aglow 
    With the pale rockets' intermittent light, 
He heard, like distant thunder, growl and grow 
    The rumble of far battles in the night,—

Rumors, reverberant, indistinct, remote, 
    Borne from red fields whose martial names have won 
The power to thrill like a far trumpet-note,—
     Vic, Vailly, Soupir, Hurtebise, Craonne . . . 

Craonne, before thy cannon-swept plateau, 
     Where like sere leaves lay strewn September's dead, 
      I found for all dear things I forfeited 
A recompense I would not now forego. 

For that high fellowship was ours then 
    With those who, championing another's good, 
    More than dull Peace or its poor votaries could, 
Taught us the dignity of being men. 

There we drained deeper the deep cup of life, 
      And on sublimer summits came to learn, 
     After soft things, the terrible and stern, 
After sweet Love, the majesty of Strife; 

There where we faced under those frowning heights 
     The blast that maims, the hurricane that kills; 
     There where the watchlights on the winter hills 
Flickered like balefire through inclement nights; 

There where, firm links in the unyielding chain, 
Where fell the long-planned blow and fell in vain—
    Hearts worthy of the honor and the trial, 
We helped to hold the lines along the Aisne. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

This poem is in the public domain. 

Alan Seeger

Alan Seeger

Alan Seeger was born in New York City in 1888 and was killed in action in World War I in 1916. He was the author of Poems (Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916), which was published posthumously.

by this poet


Tonight a shimmer of gold lies mantled o’er
Smooth lovely Ocean. Through the lustrous gloom
A savor steals from linden trees in bloom
And gardens ranged at many a palace door.
Proud walls rise here, and, where the moonbeams pour
Their pale enchantment down the dim coast-line,


Exiled afar from youth and happy love,
            If Death should ravish my fond spirit hence
I have no doubt but, like a homing dove,
            It would return to its dear residence,
And through a thousand stars find out the road
Back into the earthly flesh that was its loved abode.


On returning to the front after leave

Apart sweet women (for whom Heaven be blessed),
Comrades, you cannot think how thin and blue
Look the leftovers of mankind that rest,
Now that the cream has been skimmed off in you.
War has its horrors, but has this of good—
That its sure