Glory of Women
by Siegfried Sassoon
You love us when we’re heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war’s disgrace.
You make us shells.  You listen with delight,	5
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we’re killed.
You can’t believe that British troops ‘retire’
When hell’s last horror breaks them, and they run,	10
Trampling the terrible corpses — blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
laurelled —Since ancient Greece, laurel (a species of plant) has been used as a sign of triumph. Laurel wreaths were given to victorious athletes at the Olympic games, to triumphant generals after successful military campaigns, and to great writers and artists. That is the root of both the term Poet Laureate and the phrase rest on one’s laurels
‘retire’  — retreat