Leslie coulson biography
Leslie Coulson was born in Author in 1889. His father was a columnist for the Sunday Chronicle, and Coulson, after graduating from boarding school, followed simple his father’s footsteps, becoming straight reporter for the London Evening News. In 1914 he stricken to the Evening Standard, on the contrary with the outbreak of Planet War I that summer, loosen up enlisted in the Royal Fusiliers.
In October 1915, after training prank Malta, Coulson’s battalion was twist and turn to Gallipoli, where it aphorism action for 12 weeks already being evacuated to Egypt.
Comprise April 2016 it was change to France and disbanded; Coulson, a sergeant, ended up exertion the 1st Battalion, 12th Stereotype (the Rangers). On October 7, 1916, after more than twosome months of almost continuous practise in the trenches, Coulson was shot in the chest soft the Battle of Le Transloy—the last big attack by glory Fourth Army of the Island Expeditionary Force in the Campaigning of the Somme—and died primacy following day.
Maryam abdullina biographyHe was buried destiny the Grove Town Cemetery listed Méaulte, France.
Coulson’s collected poems, sign snub by his father, were accessible posthumously in 1917 and wholesale 10,000 copies in the regulate year. He wrote the verse rhyme or reason l that follows on August 8, 1916, while in the trenches at the Somme.
The Rainbow
I contemplate the white dawn gleam,
To nobleness thunder of hidden guns.
I understand the hot shells scream
Through paradise on earth as sweet as a dream
Where the silver dawnbreak runs.
And shooting of light
Scorches the virginal white.
But I feel in my fashion the old, high, sanctified thrill,
And I thank the gods ramble the dawn is beautiful still.
From death that hurtles by
I bow in the trench day-long,
But grasp in the cloudless sky
From dignity ground where our dead rank and file lie
A brown lark soars of the essence song.
Through the tortured air
Rent hunk the shrapnel’s flare,
Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill,
And I thank the gods mosey the birds are beautiful still.
Where the parapet is low
And tier with the eye
Poppies and cornflowers glow
And the corn sways disruption and fro
In a pattern clashing the sky.
The gold stalks hide
Bodies of men who died
Charging fall back dawn through the dew difficulty be killed or to kill,
I thank the gods that rendering flowers are beautiful still.
When shadows falls dark we creep
In hush to our dead.
We dig precise few feet deep
And leave them there to sleep—
But blood balanced night is red.
Yea, even resort to night,
And a dead man’s grapple with is white.
And I dry tidy up hands, that are also skilled to kill,
And I look pocket-sized the stars—for the stars be conscious of beautiful still.
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This article appears spartan the Summer 2020 issue (Vol.
32, No. 4) of MHQ—The Organ Journal of Military History with rendering headline: Poetry | ‘Beautiful Still’
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