Leslie Coulson was a journalist and poet. He served in Gallipoli and on the Western Front during the First World War, until his death during fighting on the Somme in October 1916.
Born in Kilburn Coulson's early career saw him become a well-known pre-war journalist, eventually attaining a position as assistant editor of the Morning Post.
With the arrival of war in Europe in August 1914 Coulson was prompt in volunteering to serve as a ranker with the Royal Fusiliers within the space of a month. He set sail on Christmas Eve 1914 for Malta. He was never to return.
He became ill with mumps before he saw active service.
Coulson penned his first war poem ... more »
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Leslie Coulson Poems
..But a short time to live
Our little hour,—how swift it flies When poppies flare and lilies smile; How soon the fleeting minute dies, Leaving us but a little while
Watch the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of hidden guns. I hear the hot shells scream Through skies as sweet as a dream
From the Somme
In other days I sang of simple things, Of summer dawn, and summer noon and night, The dewy grass, the dew wet fairy rings,
So be it, God, I take what Thou dost give, And gladly give what Thou dost take away. For me Thy choice is barren days and grey.
The God Who Waits
The old men in the olden days, Who thought and worked in simple ways, Believed in God and sought His praise.
Who Made The Law ?
Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ? Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ?
From an Outpost
I've tramped South England up and down Down Dorset way, down Devon way, Through every little ancient town Down Dorset way, down Devon way.
So be it, God, I take what Thou dost give, And gladly give what Thou dost take away.
Comments about Leslie Coulson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
..But a short time to live
Our little hour,—how swift it flies
When poppies flare and lilies smile;
How soon the fleeting minute dies,
Leaving us but a little while
To dream our dream, to sing our song,
To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower,
The Gods—They do not give us long,—
One little hour.
Our little hour,—how short it is
When Love with dew-eyed loveliness
Raises her lips for ours to kiss
And dies within our first caress.
Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame,
Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour,
For Time and Death, relentless, claim
Our little hour. ...