When the Great War, the war to end war, exacted its pound of flesh from the nations, it ground in its teeth the best of British youths -- from college, cottage and countryside.

Among them was a flowering of poets such as the English-speaking world has not seen again. Perhaps in vengeful irony God was showing man what he was wasting, demanding what right he had to do so.

More than 80 British poets ranging in age from just 19 to the their 40s were buried. All were published or anthologized before or after their brief lives.

They wrote in prose as well as poetry of conditions in the trenches. Lt. Raymond Asquith, whose father later became prime minister, said in a letter, "An unpleasant feature is the vast number of rats which gnaw the dead bodies and then run about on one’s face making obscene noises and gestures."



Capt. Arthur West, who died at 25, wrote, "You dug furiously ... a boot, a steel helmet -- you uncover a grey, dirty face, pitifully drab and ugly ... this is the devil of it, that a man is not only killed, but made to look so vile and filthy in death, so futile and meaningless."

But beyond the trenches, beyond the horror and carnage, emerged the human spirit that, even when dying, could not be extinguished entirely, though mingling constantly with the confusion and keen regret of those stood poised every moment on the sharp blade of death.

Wrote Capt. Charles Sorley, who died in 1915 at the age of 20:
 Cast away regret and rue,
 Think what you are marching to,
 Little live, great pass.
 Jesus Christ and Barabbas
 Were found the same day.
 This died, that went on his way.
    So sing with joyful breath,
    For why, you are going to death.
    Teeming earth will surely store
    All the gladness that you pour.

Lt. William Hodgson, before his death at 23, composed these lines:
 We that have seen the strongest
 Cry like a beaten child,
 The sanest eyes unholy,
 The cleanest hands defiled,
 We that have known the heart blood
 Less than the lees of wine,
 We that have seen men broken,
 We know man is divine.

This has to be the final, lasting triumph that stirs above the sweeping loss, expressed in Lt. Thomas Kettle’s words to his wife: "It is indeed an ordeal to which human nature itself is hardly equal. What impresses and moves me above all is the amazing faith, patience and courage of the men. God bless them and make me less inferior to them."

Kettle was a Dublin University professor, member of the House of Commons and a charming, lovable man. In the following poem, to his daughter, Betty, he left these lines:
"You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own, And the dear heart that was your baby throne, To dice with death. ... Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead, Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor, But for a dream, born in a herdsman’s shed, And for the secret Scripture of the poor."

Wilford Owen, one of the most gifted of the war poets, revealed with power the "pity of war." Owen wrote to his mother: “I can find no word to qualify my experiences except the word SHEER. It passed the limits of my Abhorrence. I lost all my earthly faculties, and fought like an angel."

In 1918 Owen was awarded the military cross. The night of Nov. 4 he was killed in a maneuver that achieved nothing, for the war was ending. Seven days later in Shrewsbury, while the Armistice was being wildly celebrated, his parents received the news of his death.

Of all his memorable poems, "Parable of the Old Man and the Young" is perhaps the most commanding:

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife. And as they sojourned both of them together, Isaac the first born spake and said, "My Father, Behold the preparations, fire and iron, But where the lamb for this burn-offering?"

Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, And builded parapets and trenches there, And stretched forth the knife to slay his son. When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, Neither do anything to him, thy son. Behold! Caught in a thicket by its horns, A Ram. Offer the Ram of Pride instead. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

The cruel waste, the inhuman suffering, followed by the devastating social upheaval, the struggles of the thousands of physically and emotionally wounded to yet survive, and build some manner of life for themselves -- these realities can sometimes overwhelm and oppress us, for we are still enduring the effects of this cataclysm today.

Above politics and economics, above man’s inhumanity to man, let us lift our own hearts and see if they are sound, if they can perceive and embrace the best within ourselves, and the best within our fellow men. Here resides our greatest tool, our greatest defense, our greatest hope.

Kettle wrote the following words to his wife in August 1916, a month before his death. They were a gift to her; they can be a gift to any of us who wish to receive it. "If God spares me I shall accept it as a special mission to preach love and peace for the rest of my life. If He does not, I know now in my heart that for anyone who is dead but who has loved enough, there is provided some way of piercing the veils of death and abiding close to those whom he has loved -- till that end which is the beginning."

Susan Evans McCloud is author of more than 40 books, including historical fiction, biography and mystery. She has published screenplays, a book of poetry and lyrics, including two songs in the LDS hymnbook. She is the mother of six children.