Darkness—expectant, discreet— Only a lamp here and there, Gloom in the clattering street, Stygian black in the square; Dazzling fascias and fronts, Scintillant sky-scrapers banished, Snuffed and shut down are the spangles of Town. London has vanished. Only a few months ago London woke up every night; Dances or “Chemin” or Show, Festival vistas or light. Everywhere glitter and glare, Junket and revelry keeping. Yes, but despite the laughter and light, London was sleeping. Searchlights are probing the skies, Eastward their streamers are trailed; Masked are the city’s bright eyes— Even the tramcars are veiled. Cockneys turn in at eleven, “Stop Press” thirst finally slaked. Turn the lights out. Now, without doubt, London’s awake!
Jessie Pope - 1868-1941
The dying sunset’s slanting rays Incarnadine the soldier’s deed, His sturdy countenance betrays The bull-dog breed. Not his to shun the stubborn fight, The struggle against cruel odds. Alone, unaided—'tis a sight For men and gods. And now his back is bowed and bent, Now stooping, now erect he stands, And now the red life blood is sprent From both his hands. He takes his enemies on trust As one who sees and yet is blind, For every mutilating thrust Comes from behind. ’Tis done! The dying sun has gone, But triumph fills the soldier’s breast. He’s sewn his back brace button on While fully dressed.