Hero |best| May 2026

The clergyman came in, and shook her hand, And spoke of Jack's great courage, and the shell That burst quite close; and how he carried on A little while, and then, when help was near, He died quite easily. Her lips were dumb, She could not speak—but, when she raised her head, She looked at him, and knew he'd understood. And then she told the story, for she felt That she must tell it all, to make them see The kind of death her son had died, and how He'd been so brave, and how he'd kept his head.

Here is the full content of the poem by Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967), one of the most famous war poets of World War I. "Hero" (full poem) The clergyman came in, and shook her hand,

Then the broad, sunny parlour with its flowers And quiet old furniture, and the clock That ticked so slow, seemed like a sort of dream; And all the while the Mother's heart was cold With a despair that she must never tell. Here is the full content of the poem

She did not know the Major wrote and said That Jack was missing; she did not know the truth; She only knew the lie they'd told her son Was truer than the truth. She only knew That he was safe, and that she must be brave. And so she told the story, over and over, To all the people who came in to see, Until at last she almost came to feel That what she told was true. And all the while The clock ticked slowly in the sunny room, And the red roses in the vases smiled. This poem is a bitter critique of how families back home were fed sanitized, heroic lies about their sons' deaths. The mother clings to a fabricated story of courage and peace, while the reader understands the likely brutal, senseless reality. Sassoon, who served in the trenches, exposes the gulf between propaganda and truth. She only knew That he was safe, and that she must be brave

"Jack fell as he'd have wished," the Mother said, And folded up the telegram that told Of her son's death, "He's safe in Heaven now," She said, "And I am proud of him, poor lad. He always said he'd go—and now he's gone. He's safer than he'd ever been, I think, And nothing can be hurt. He never wrote To tell me he was wounded; I expect He thought it might distress me. I can see Him smiling as he used to, and his eyes Are just the same. Dear lad, I'm proud of him."