Edmund Arthur Cyril John was born in Woolwich, Kent, UK on 27th November 1883. According to his military record, Edmund joined the 28th (London) Battalion (Artist's Rifles) in 1915.
He was invalided out of the Army in 1916 and died a year later in Taormina, Sicily on 28th February 1917.
Edmund’s poems were published in " The English Review," " The British Review," " Colour," " The Gypsy," and ' The Anthology of Trees."
His WW1 poems were published within his collection “The Wind in the Temple: Poems” (Erskine Macdonald, London, 1915) pp. 51 - 53:
POEMS OF THE WAR
1. The Huns. 1914 2. Ave Indi 3. In Memoriam
THE HUNS, 1914
Only the bent ghosts of pain, the grey phantoms of fear
Inhabit the desolate streets in the silence, and peer
Out from the charred, blackened windows. No more than the breath
Of the fresh fields shall stir the drawn lips of the dead whose blood dyes
Their own hearths, where from out the spent ashes dim spirals yet rise
Like the smoke of dark incense that burns on the Altars of Death.
All the prayers are stilled ; there is blood in the holy place.
And over the lintels, and splashed on the pale, lined old face
Of the dead peasant woman who lies where the hollyhock blows.
And blood on the breasts of the maiden who yesterday smiled.
And blood on the white broken body of each flower-like child.
Like red wme that is spilled on a petal of some fallen rose.
And blood there shall be on the throats of the devilish throng.
And an eye for an eye, and for every unnameable wrong
Anguish and death and despair shall find out a reward.
Lo, the clamour of battle is calling to all who are men
To succour the helpless, and vanquish and drive to their den
The murdering Huns who have drawn and shall die by the sword.
AVE INDI
The West is grey, and pale with sweat of pain,
Save where the flicker of a funeral pyre
Stabs the dull pallor with fine jets of fire.
And ashen cheeks are grim with some dark stain.
Gold is the East, and bright the Indian sea ;
And princes of a race that knows no fears
Pour out their treasures of a thousand years,
And call to battle all their chivalry.
For lo, at last the East and West have met,
In splendid friendship sealed by splendid blood ;
So shall they conquer death and stem the flood
That seethes from hell — and heaven shall not forget !
For every tortured child, and all the shame
Of women slain, the Indian hosts shall bring
Bitter reward ; and through God's halls shall ring
Their mighty vengeance and eternal fame.
IN MEMORIAM (To Field-Marshal Lord Roberts of Kandahar, obiit November, 1914)
Rest, though the clamorous surge of war
Follow thy peace to the great doors of Death ;
As in thy fearless life, so now, the cannons' roar.
The roll of drums, at thy last breath
Proclaim thee Conqueror !
The prophets and the warriors who have passed
That way before thy coming, welcome thee ;
The Angel's trumpet sounds a nobler blast,
And kings and knights of the old chivalry
Now hail thee at the last.
Thy days, thy deeds, thy words of proven gold.
Thy son, and last of all, thyself didst give
For Country's sake ; and now the tale is told
Thy splendid memory shall breathe and live
Till all men's hearts lie cold.
From: https://archive.org/stream/windintemplepoem00john/windintemplepoem00john_djvu.txt
