I meant to post this yesterday http://www.poetryfoundation.org/article/240598 to commemorate Veteran's Day. Of course, the famous poem that comes to mind on this day is Canadian poet John McCrae's In Flanders Fields. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields I still remember how I was sensitized to this day in London when coming out of South Kensington (?) station to go sightseeing with my mom who was visiting from the U.S. and we were both given a poppy made in red tissue paper to pin to our lapels.  And my mom introduced me to this poem.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie
         In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.

The other poem that comes to my mind is Le dormeur du val (1870, Franco-Prussian War) http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Le_Dormeur_du_val by Arthur Rimbaud.

C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

7 octobre 1870

It is a green hollow where a stream gurgles,
Crazily catching silver rags of itself on the grasses;
Where the sun shines from the proud mountain:
It is a little valley bubbling over with light.

A young soldier, open-mouthed, bare-headed,
With the nape of his neck bathed in cool blue cresses,
Sleeps; he is stretched out on the grass, under the sky,
Pale on his green bed where the light falls like rain.

His feet in the yellow flags, he lies sleeping. Smiling as
A sick child might smile, he is having a nap:
Cradle him warmly, Nature: he is cold.

No odour makes his nostrils quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
At peace. There are two red holes in his right side.

- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)

I'm sure there are other translations out there so maybe this is not the best but at least it's published and the translator's name is available.  The next one is by Christiane Guise. http://www.poetry.bellepage.com/poetry.html

It is a green hollow, where a river sings
Hanging here and there pretty silver tatters
On the grass; where the sun, on the proud mountain,
Shines: It is a little vale sparkling with light,

A young soldier, his mouth opened, bareheaded,
And the nape of his neck in the cool blue cress.
Sleeps; he lays there in the grass, under the clouds,
Pale in his green bed where light is pouring down.

His feet in gladioli, he sleeps. Smiling as
An ill child would smile, he is taking a nap:
Nature, cuddle him warmly; he is cold.

The sweet scents do not make his nostril quiver;
He sleeps in the sun, his hand on his breast
Tranquil. He has two red holes in his right side.

Here's an interesting article on War Poets from Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_poet