Eva Dobell

Works Cited

Biography

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NS-kGoxCd-y9C78ism9oa4--bkTf7lQtpiDO5d12fgU/edit

• 1876–1963
• Born in England
• A British poet, nurse, and editor
• Best known for her poems about World War I
• Began to write poetry after joining the Voluntary Aid Detachment as a nurse
• Published half a dozen books of poetry, a verse drama, edited a book of poems

Poem Analysis

The poem, In A Soldier's Hospital I Pluck by Eva Dobell, is a syllable poem. The poem does not include many examples of figurative language, symbolism or other poetic devices. Instead, Dobell has written the poem in a straightforward way, meaning what she is saying. The tone throughout the poem can be defined as depressing and sad. Dobell does this by making strong word choices such as, smashed, die, pain, maimed, helplessly, fight, broke, fear, shaking, strangled sobs and wounds. Dobell also uses alliteration twice in the poem, but in different ways. One of the places Dobell does this is, “so wasted and so white". By repeating the word “so” twice and also following it with a word starting with the letter “w” both times. The other place is “shaking, strangled sobs”. By repeating the letter “s” in the beginning of each word Dobell illustrates alliteration again. The theme in Dobell's poem is that war is very difficult both on your body and mind. War is not what people expect it to be, especially for the soldiers who have to fight and sacrifice.

Eva Dobell

Time in World War I

• Her most famous poems are from World War I
• Volunteered to join the Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD) as a nurse
• Her experiences in the VAD inspired her to write poetry
• Continued to write even after the war

In A Soldier's Hospital I Pluck

Syllable poem with eight syllables per line

So broke with pain, he shrinks in dread

To see the 'dresser' drawing near;

and winds the clothes about his head

That none may see his heart-sick fear.

His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.

But when the dreaded moment's there

He'll face us all, a soldier yet,

Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,

(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),

And smoke his Woodbine cigarette.

Crippled for life at seventeen,

His great eyes seems to question why:

with both legs smashed it might have been

Better in that grim trench to die

Than drag maimed years out helplessly.

A child - so wasted and so white,

He told a lie to get his way,

To march, a man with men, and fight

While other boys are still at play.

A gallant lie your heart will say.

Alitteration

Themes in Poetry

Thesis statement: The war theme of Eva Dobell’s poems reflect her experiences as a volunteer nurse during World War I.

Noble/strong/brave

• All her most famous poems are about war
• Many are about soldiers
• Based on short experiences from her life or people she met

Most Famous Poems

• In A Soldier's Hospital I Pluck
• Advent 1916
• Night Duty
• In A Soldiers' Hospital II Gramophone Tunes

Crippled for life at seventeen,

His great eyes seems to question why:

with both legs smashed it might have been

Better in that grim trench to die

Than drag maimed years out helplessly.

A child - so wasted and so white,

He told a lie to get his way,

To march, a man with men, and fight

While other boys are still at play.

A gallant lie your heart will say.

So broke with pain, he shrinks in dread

To see the 'dresser' drawing near;

and winds the clothes about his head

That none may see his heart-sick fear.

His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.

But when the dreaded moment's there

He'll face us all, a soldier yet,

Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,

(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),

And smoke his Woodbine cigarette.

Through the long ward the gramophone

Grinds out its nasal melodies:

“Where did you get that girl?” it shrills.

The patients listen at their ease,

Through clouds of strong tobacco smoke:

The gramophone can always please.

The Welsh boy has it by his bed,

(He’s lame – one leg blown away -

He’ll lie propped up with pillows there,

And wind the handle half the day.

His neighbor, with the shattered arm,

Picks out the records he must play.

Jock with his crutches beats the time;

The gunner, with his head close-bound,

Listen with puzzled, patient smile:

(Shell shocked-he cannot hear a sound).

The others join in from their beds,

And send the chorus rolling round.

Somehow for me these common tunes

Can never sound the same again:

They’ve magic now to thrill my heart

And bring before me, clear and plain,

Man that is master of his flesh,

And has the laugh of death and pain.

I dreamt last night Christ came to earth again

To bless His own. My soul from place to place

On her dream-quest sped, seeking for His face

Through temple and town and lovely land, in vain.

Then came I to a place where death and pain

Had made of God's sweet world a waste forlorn,

With shattered trees and meadows gashed and torn,

Where the grim trenches scarred the shell-sheared plain.

And through that Golgotha of blood and clay,

Where watchers cursed the sick dawn, heavy-eyed,

There (in my dream) Christ passed upon His way,

Where His cross marks their nameless graves who died

Slain for the world's salvation where all day

For others' sake strong men are crucified.

The pain and laughter of the day are done

So strangely hushed and still the long ward seems,

Only the Sister’s candle softly beams.

Clear from the church near by the clock strikes ’one’;

And all are wrapt away in secret sleep and dreams.

Here one cries sudden on a sobbing breath,

Gripped in the clutch of some incarnate fear:

What terror through the darkness draweth near?

What memory of carnage and of death?

What vanished scenes of dread to his closed eyes appear?

And one laughs out with an exultant joy.

An athlete he — Maybe his young limbs strain

In some remembered game, and not in vain

To win his side the goal — Poor crippled boy,

Who in the waking world will never run again.

One murmurs soft and low a woman’s name;

And here a vet’ran soldier calm and still

As sculptured marble sleeps, and roams at will

Through eastern lands where sunbeams scorch like flame,

By rich bazaar and town, and wood-wrapt snow-crowned hill.

Through the wide open window on great star,

Swinging her lamp above the pear-tree high,

Looks in upon these dreaming forms that lie

So near in body, yet in soul so far

As those bright worlds thick strewn ion that vast depth of sky.