Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols is less well known today than he was during his lifetime, when he was hailed as the worthy successor of Rupert Brooke. Like his friends Siegfried Sassoon and Robert Graves, his poems were graphic remembrances of his time on the battlefields of World War I. However, his writing was more idealistic than either of those poets.
Nichols was the son of a poet. Educated at Winchester College and Trinity College, Oxford, he joined the Royal Field Artillery in late 1914 as a second lieutenant. He served in the Battle of Loos and the Battle of the Somme and was invalided home with shell shock in 1916. In 1917, he was attached to the Foreign Office's Ministry of Information and was sent to New York on a publicity tour to drum up support for the war among Americans.
After the war, Nichols about. He was Professor of English Literature at the Imperial University of Tokyo from 1921 to 1924. After that, Nichols moved to Hollywood, where he advised Douglas Fairbanks and wrote plays and screenplays. His Wings over Europe (1928), was a Broadway hit.
Nichols moved to Germany, then Austria in 1933 and 1934 before settling in southern France for six years. In 1940 he moved to Cambridge, England, where he died in 1944 at the age of 51. He left behind many unfinished works of poetry and fiction. A year before his death, Nichols edited the Anthology of War Poetry, 1914-1918. Of his own war poetry, Invocation (1915) and Ardours and Endurances (1917) are the most widely read.
Nichols was the son of a poet. Educated at Winchester College and Trinity College, Oxford, he joined the Royal Field Artillery in late 1914 as a second lieutenant. He served in the Battle of Loos and the Battle of the Somme and was invalided home with shell shock in 1916. In 1917, he was attached to the Foreign Office's Ministry of Information and was sent to New York on a publicity tour to drum up support for the war among Americans.
After the war, Nichols about. He was Professor of English Literature at the Imperial University of Tokyo from 1921 to 1924. After that, Nichols moved to Hollywood, where he advised Douglas Fairbanks and wrote plays and screenplays. His Wings over Europe (1928), was a Broadway hit.
Nichols moved to Germany, then Austria in 1933 and 1934 before settling in southern France for six years. In 1940 he moved to Cambridge, England, where he died in 1944 at the age of 51. He left behind many unfinished works of poetry and fiction. A year before his death, Nichols edited the Anthology of War Poetry, 1914-1918. Of his own war poetry, Invocation (1915) and Ardours and Endurances (1917) are the most widely read.
Battery Moving Up to a New Position from Rest Camp: Dawn
Not a sign of life we rouse
In any square close-shuttered house
That flanks the road we amble down
Toward far trenches through the town.
The dark, snow-slushy, empty street….
Tingle of frost in brow and feet….
Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke.
No sound but the smacking stroke
As a sergeant flings each arm
Out and across to keep him warm,
And the sudden splashing crack
Of ice-pools broken by our track.
More dark houses, yet no sign
Of life….And axle’s creak and whine….
The splash of hooves, the strain of trace….
Clatter: we cross the market place.
Deep quiet again, and on we lurch
Under the shadow of a church:
Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim;
Within its aisles a light burns dim….
When, marvellous! from overhead,
Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead,
Speech-moved by some Superior Will,
A bell tolls thrice and then is still.
And suddenly I know that now
The priest within, with shining brow,
Lifts high the small round of the Host.
The server’s tingling bell is lost
In clash of the greater overhead.
Peace like a wave descends, is spread,
While watch the peasants’ reverent eyes….
The bell’s boom trembles, hangs, and dies.
O people who bow down to see
The Miracle of Cavalry,
The bitter and the glorious,
Bow down, bow down and pray for us.
Once more our anguished way we take
Towards our Golgotha, to make
For all our lovers sacrifice.
Again the troubled bell tolls thrice.
And slowly, slowly, lifted up
Dazzles the overflowing cup.
O worshipping, fond multitude,
Remember us too, and our blood.
Turn hearts to us as we go by,
Salute those about to die,
Plead for them, the deep bell toll:
Their sacrifice must soon be whole.
Entreat you for such hearts as break
With the premonitory ache
Of bodies, whose feet, hands, and side,
Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified.
Sue for them and all of us
Who the world over suffer thus,
Who have scarce time for prayer indeed,
Who only march and die and bleed.
—————————————-
The town is left, the road leads on,
Bluely glaring in the sun,
Toward where in the sunrise gate
Death, honour, and fierce battle wait.
In any square close-shuttered house
That flanks the road we amble down
Toward far trenches through the town.
The dark, snow-slushy, empty street….
Tingle of frost in brow and feet….
Horse-breath goes dimly up like smoke.
No sound but the smacking stroke
As a sergeant flings each arm
Out and across to keep him warm,
And the sudden splashing crack
Of ice-pools broken by our track.
More dark houses, yet no sign
Of life….And axle’s creak and whine….
The splash of hooves, the strain of trace….
Clatter: we cross the market place.
Deep quiet again, and on we lurch
Under the shadow of a church:
Its tower ascends, fog-wreathed and grim;
Within its aisles a light burns dim….
When, marvellous! from overhead,
Like abrupt speech of one deemed dead,
Speech-moved by some Superior Will,
A bell tolls thrice and then is still.
And suddenly I know that now
The priest within, with shining brow,
Lifts high the small round of the Host.
The server’s tingling bell is lost
In clash of the greater overhead.
Peace like a wave descends, is spread,
While watch the peasants’ reverent eyes….
The bell’s boom trembles, hangs, and dies.
O people who bow down to see
The Miracle of Cavalry,
The bitter and the glorious,
Bow down, bow down and pray for us.
Once more our anguished way we take
Towards our Golgotha, to make
For all our lovers sacrifice.
Again the troubled bell tolls thrice.
And slowly, slowly, lifted up
Dazzles the overflowing cup.
O worshipping, fond multitude,
Remember us too, and our blood.
Turn hearts to us as we go by,
Salute those about to die,
Plead for them, the deep bell toll:
Their sacrifice must soon be whole.
Entreat you for such hearts as break
With the premonitory ache
Of bodies, whose feet, hands, and side,
Must soon be torn, pierced, crucified.
Sue for them and all of us
Who the world over suffer thus,
Who have scarce time for prayer indeed,
Who only march and die and bleed.
—————————————-
The town is left, the road leads on,
Bluely glaring in the sun,
Toward where in the sunrise gate
Death, honour, and fierce battle wait.
