National Poetry Month

In light of the fine poetry that has been shared here I feel it my duty to pass along a verse or two that has touched my life.

This is the one and only poem that my father made me memorize as a child and it is only now that I have begin to treasure it. To offer a little background, the poem was written in light of a brigade of British Cavalry that attempted a fatal charge during the crimean war. The most intriguing fact about the whole poem is the fact that all the men knew that some mistake had been made, for to attempt this charge meant certain death. It makes me ponder what we value in our culture. Self aggrandizement and a general lack of selflessness pervade our society and this poem makes ideas and lofty ethical ideas simmer in my minds eye.

Anyway, I encourage you to read it.

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 2. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 3. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. 4. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. 5. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 6. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred.

Copied from Poems of Alfred Tennyson,
J. E. Tilton and Company, Boston, 1870