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lirik lagu siegfried sassoon - july 31st 1914

the landscape wore no look of imminent doom; no thunderclouds were above the sky~line; the weather was perfect, and devoid of all atmosphere of fatefulness. but the aspect of things was within me, imbuing what i beheld with significances of impending disaster. those two hop~kilns on the rising ground above the road—in the past there had never been anything noticeable about them. now they seemed half~tragic in their homely simplicity. standing away from their lengthened shadows, they were transfigured by the low~shot light of this heart~absorbing evening. in the reddening glow of the setting sun their kindly cowls were like sign~posts pointing toward the ominous continent of europe. those local kilns stood for england—for kent, anyhow—rustically confronting whatever enemy might invade the freedom of the hastings road. indistinctly i imagined myself dodging about among the orchards and hop~fields, letting off my rifle at germans charging across the fields below. very vaguely visualized germans they were, entirely unrelated to schumann—or even richard strauss, whom i had politely applauded at drury lane a few weeks ago. and what exactly we should all be doing was equally undefined, since my notions of warfare had been mostly derived from drawings in old numbers of the ill~strated london news, when russia was fighting j~pan and the turks were having battles with the bulgarians. all that seemed so remote that there was no sense in the idea of such things happening in one’s own country. it was rather like a recurrence of william the conqueror, 1066, or the wars of the roses, utterly unreasonable in 1914. i assumed that harmless places like the farm i had just passed would be plundered and burnt down. for the moment i forgot all about artillery, though one of my best friends was in the field gunners, and i had already written to him, lugubriously asking his advice about how one enlisted in the cavalry

meanwhile i continued placidly along the lamberhurst road, with the bayham woods looking sombrely romantic on my left, while on my right was that fruitful landscape which receded so contentedly to its low green hills. lit by departing day was the length and breadth of the weald, and the message of those friendly miles was a single chord of emotion vibrating backward across the years to my earliest rememberings. uplifted by this awareness, i knew that here was something deeply loved, something which the unmeasurable timelessness of childhood had made my own. i saw it as something worth losing, and saluted it with feelings of farewell. and when i came to kipping’s cross, where i must turn off the main road for the last two miles homeward—when i came to that life~known glimpse of the valley between the old apple trees at king’s toll farm (it was there—on a golden may afternoon five years before—that i had been drawn toward my heart’s desire to win recognition as a poet, while i was driving home in the dog~cart after a cricket match) then my thoughts found assured utterance, and i said to myself that i was ready to meet whatever the war might ask of me

the years of my youth were going down for ever in the weltering western gold, and the future would take me far from that sunset~embered horizon. beyond the night was my new beginning. the weald had been the world of my youngness, and while i gazed across it now i felt prepared to do what i could to defend it. and after all, dying for one’s native land was believed to be the most glorious thing one could possibly do!

- lirik lagu siegfried sassoon

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