You love us when we're heroes, home on leave, <br />Or wounded in a mentionable place. <br />You worship decorations; you believe <br />That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace. <br />You make us shells. You listen with delight, <br />By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled. <br />You crown our distant ardours while we fight, <br />And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed. <br />You can't believe that British troops 'retire' <br />When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run, <br />Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood. <br />O German mother dreaming by the fire, <br />While you are knitting socks to send your son <br />His face is trodden deeper in the mud.<br /><br />Siegfried Sassoon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/glory-of-women/
