Nichols is hardly ever so successful as these two pieces are, yet even his war poems (records of casual scenes and moods), which cannot be said to push beyond appearances, are warmer and not so arid as Sassoon's, not so trivial as Graves'.
"''Ello! wot's up?' 'Let's 'ave a look!'
'Come on, Ginger, drop that book!'
'Wot an 'ell of bloody noise!'
'It's the Yorks and Lanes, me boys!'
So we crowd: hear, watch them come. . .
One man drubbing on a drum,
A crazy, high mouth-organ blowing,
Tin cans rattling, cat-calls, crowing. . .
''Ip 'urrah!' 'Give Fritz the chuck.'
'Good ol' bloody Yorks!' 'Good luck!'
'Cheer!'
I cannot cheer or speak
Lest my voice, my heart must break."
His comrades' intentions are thinner than this, indeed so fully rewarded with a grin that the title "poet" appears misplaced. Slangy cynicism characterises many of Sassoon's poems, but reading on, something deeper is discovered.
"When I'm among a blaze of lights,
With tawdry music and cigars
And women dawdling through delights,
And officers at cocktail bars, . . .
Sometimes I think of garden nights
And elm trees nodding at the stars.
I dream of a small fire-lit room
With yellow candles burning straight,
And glowing pictures in the gloom,
And kindly books that hold me late.
Of things like these I love to think
When I can never be alone:
Then someone says: 'Another drink?'. . .
And turns my living heart to stone."
