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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:23 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:23 -0700 |
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diff --git a/1034-h/1034-h.htm b/1034-h/1034-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e757d0c --- /dev/null +++ b/1034-h/1034-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1539 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Poems, by Wilfred Owen + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1034 ***</div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + POEMS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Wilfred Owen + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + With an Introduction by Siegfried Sassoon + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Introduction + </h2> + <p> + In writing an Introduction such as this it is good to be brief. The poems + printed in this book need no preliminary commendations from me or anyone + else. The author has left us his own fragmentary but impressive Foreword; + this, and his Poems, can speak for him, backed by the authority of his + experience as an infantry soldier, and sustained by nobility and + originality of style. All that was strongest in Wilfred Owen survives in + his poems; any superficial impressions of his personality, any records of + his conversation, behaviour, or appearance, would be irrelevant and + unseemly. The curiosity which demands such morsels would be incapable of + appreciating the richness of his work. + </p> + <p> + The discussion of his experiments in assonance and dissonance (of which + 'Strange Meeting' is the finest example) may be left to the professional + critics of verse, the majority of whom will be more preoccupied with such + technical details than with the profound humanity of the self- revelation + manifested in such magnificent lines as those at the end of his 'Apologia + pro Poemate Meo', and in that other poem which he named 'Greater Love'. + </p> + <p> + The importance of his contribution to the literature of the War cannot be + decided by those who, like myself, both admired him as a poet and valued + him as a friend. His conclusions about War are so entirely in accordance + with my own that I cannot attempt to judge his work with any critical + detachment. I can only affirm that he was a man of absolute integrity of + mind. He never wrote his poems (as so many war-poets did) to make the + effect of a personal gesture. He pitied others; he did not pity himself. + In the last year of his life he attained a clear vision of what he needed + to say, and these poems survive him as his true and splendid testament. + </p> + <p> + Wilfred Owen was born at Oswestry on 18th March 1893. He was educated at + the Birkenhead Institute, and matriculated at London University in 1910. + In 1913 he obtained a private tutorship near Bordeaux, where he remained + until 1915. During this period he became acquainted with the eminent + French poet, Laurent Tailhade, to whom he showed his early verses, and + from whom he received considerable encouragement. In 1915, in spite of + delicate health, he joined the Artists' Rifles O.T.C., was gazetted to the + Manchester Regiment, and served with their 2nd Battalion in France from + December 1916 to June 1917, when he was invalided home. Fourteen months + later he returned to the Western Front and served with the same Battalion, + ultimately commanding a Company. + </p> + <p> + He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry while taking part in some + heavy fighting on 1st October. He was killed on 4th November 1918, while + endeavouring to get his men across the Sambre Canal. + </p> + <p> + A month before his death he wrote to his mother: "My nerves are in perfect + order. I came out again in order to help these boys; directly, by leading + them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings + that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can." Let his own words be + his epitaph:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Courage was mine, and I had mystery; + Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery." + + Siegfried Sassoon. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POEMS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Preface + </h2> + <p> + This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of + them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, + dominion or power, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + except War. + Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry. + The subject of it is War, and the pity of War. + The Poetry is in the pity. + Yet these elegies are not to this generation, + This is in no sense consolatory. + + They may be to the next. + All the poet can do to-day is to warn. + That is why the true Poets must be truthful. + If I thought the letter of this book would last, + I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives + Prussia,—my ambition and those names will be content; for they will + have achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Note.—This Preface was found, in an unfinished condition, + among Wilfred Owen's papers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> Introduction </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> <big><b>POEMS</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> Preface </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> Strange Meeting </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> Greater Love </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> Apologia pro Poemate Meo </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Show </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> Mental Cases </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> Parable of the Old Men and the Young </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Arms and the Boy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Anthem for Doomed Youth </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> The Send-off </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Insensibility </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> Dulce et Decorum est </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> The Sentry </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> The Dead-Beat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> Exposure </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> Spring Offensive </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> The Chances </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> S. I. W. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Futility </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Smile, Smile, Smile </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> Conscious </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> A Terre </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Wild with all Regrets </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> Disabled </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_APPE"> Appendix </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Strange Meeting + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It seemed that out of the battle I escaped + Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped + Through granites which Titanic wars had groined. + Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, + Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. + Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared + With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, + Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. + And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall; + With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained; + Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, + And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. + "Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn." + "None," said the other, "Save the undone years, + The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, + Was my life also; I went hunting wild + After the wildest beauty in the world, + Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, + But mocks the steady running of the hour, + And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. + For by my glee might many men have laughed, + And of my weeping something has been left, + Which must die now. I mean the truth untold, + The pity of war, the pity war distilled. + Now men will go content with what we spoiled. + Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled. + They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress, + None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress. + Courage was mine, and I had mystery; + Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery; + To miss the march of this retreating world + Into vain citadels that are not walled. + Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels + I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, + Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. + I would have poured my spirit without stint + But not through wounds; not on the cess of war. + Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were. + I am the enemy you killed, my friend. + I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned + Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. + I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. + Let us sleep now . . ." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (This poem was found among the author's papers. + It ends on this strange note.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *Another Version* + + Earth's wheels run oiled with blood. Forget we that. + Let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought. + Beauty is yours and you have mastery, + Wisdom is mine, and I have mystery. + We two will stay behind and keep our troth. + Let us forego men's minds that are brute's natures, + Let us not sup the blood which some say nurtures, + Be we not swift with swiftness of the tigress. + Let us break ranks from those who trek from progress. + Miss we the march of this retreating world + Into old citadels that are not walled. + Let us lie out and hold the open truth. + Then when their blood hath clogged the chariot wheels + We will go up and wash them from deep wells. + What though we sink from men as pitchers falling + Many shall raise us up to be their filling + Even from wells we sunk too deep for war + And filled by brows that bled where no wounds were. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + *Alternative line—* + + Even as One who bled where no wounds were. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Greater Love + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Red lips are not so red + As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. + Kindness of wooed and wooer + Seems shame to their love pure. + O Love, your eyes lose lure + When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! + + Your slender attitude + Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, + Rolling and rolling there + Where God seems not to care; + Till the fierce Love they bear + Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. + + Your voice sings not so soft,— + Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,— + Your dear voice is not dear, + Gentle, and evening clear, + As theirs whom none now hear + Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. + + Heart, you were never hot, + Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; + And though your hand be pale, + Paler are all which trail + Your cross through flame and hail: + Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Apologia pro Poemate Meo + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I, too, saw God through mud— + The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. + War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, + And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. + + Merry it was to laugh there— + Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. + For power was on us as we slashed bones bare + Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. + + I, too, have dropped off fear— + Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, + And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear + Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; + + And witnessed exultation— + Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, + Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, + Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. + + I have made fellowships— + Untold of happy lovers in old song. + For love is not the binding of fair lips + With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, + + By Joy, whose ribbon slips,— + But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; + Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; + Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. + + I have perceived much beauty + In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; + Heard music in the silentness of duty; + Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. + + Nevertheless, except you share + With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, + Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, + And heaven but as the highway for a shell, + + You shall not hear their mirth: + You shall not come to think them well content + By any jest of mine. These men are worth + Your tears: You are not worth their merriment. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + November 1917. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Show + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, + As unremembering how I rose or why, + And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, + Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, + And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques. + + Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, + There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. + It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs + Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. + + By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped + Round myriad warts that might be little hills. + + From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, + And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes. + + (And smell came up from those foul openings + As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.) + + On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, + Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, + All migrants from green fields, intent on mire. + + Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, + Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. + + I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, + I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten. + + Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, + I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. + + And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. + And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid + Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, + Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, + And the fresh-severed head of it, my head. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Mental Cases + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? + Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, + Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish, + Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked? + Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic, + Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? + Ever from their hair and through their hand palms + Misery swelters. Surely we have perished + Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish? + + —These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. + Memory fingers in their hair of murders, + Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. + Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, + Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. + Always they must see these things and hear them, + Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, + Carnage incomparable and human squander + Rucked too thick for these men's extrication. + + Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented + Back into their brains, because on their sense + Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black; + Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh + —Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, + Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses. + —Thus their hands are plucking at each other; + Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; + Snatching after us who smote them, brother, + Pawing us who dealt them war and madness. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Parable of the Old Men and the Young + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, + And took the fire with him, and a knife. + And as they sojourned both of them together, + Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father, + Behold the preparations, fire and iron, + But where the lamb for this burnt-offering? + Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps, + And builded parapets and trenches there, + And stretch\ed forth the knife to slay his son. + When lo! an angel called him out of heaven, + Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad, + Neither do anything to him. Behold, + A ram caught in a thicket by its horns; + Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. + But the old man would not so, but slew his son. . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Arms and the Boy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade + How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; + Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash; + And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh. + + Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads + Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads. + Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth, + Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death. + + For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple. + There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple; + And God will grow no talons at his heels, + Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Anthem for Doomed Youth + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? + Only the monstrous anger of the guns. + Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle + Can patter out their hasty orisons. + No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells, + Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,— + The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; + And bugles calling for them from sad shires. + + What candles may be held to speed them all? + Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes + Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. + The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; + Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, + And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Send-off + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way + To the siding-shed, + And lined the train with faces grimly gay. + + Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray + As men's are, dead. + + Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp + Stood staring hard, + Sorry to miss them from the upland camp. + Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp + Winked to the guard. + + So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went. + They were not ours: + We never heard to which front these were sent. + + Nor there if they yet mock what women meant + Who gave them flowers. + + Shall they return to beatings of great bells + In wild trainloads? + A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, + May creep back, silent, to still village wells + Up half-known roads. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Insensibility + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Happy are men who yet before they are killed + Can let their veins run cold. + Whom no compassion fleers + Or makes their feet + Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. + The front line withers, + But they are troops who fade, not flowers + For poets' tearful fooling: + Men, gaps for filling + Losses who might have fought + Longer; but no one bothers. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + And some cease feeling + Even themselves or for themselves. + Dullness best solves + The tease and doubt of shelling, + And Chance's strange arithmetic + Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling. + They keep no check on Armies' decimation. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + Happy are these who lose imagination: + They have enough to carry with ammunition. + Their spirit drags no pack. + Their old wounds save with cold can not more ache. + Having seen all things red, + Their eyes are rid + Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. + And terror's first constriction over, + Their hearts remain small drawn. + Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle + Now long since ironed, + Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + Happy the soldier home, with not a notion + How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack, + And many sighs are drained. + Happy the lad whose mind was never trained: + His days are worth forgetting more than not. + He sings along the march + Which we march taciturn, because of dusk, + The long, forlorn, relentless trend + From larger day to huger night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V + + We wise, who with a thought besmirch + Blood over all our soul, + How should we see our task + But through his blunt and lashless eyes? + Alive, he is not vital overmuch; + Dying, not mortal overmuch; + Nor sad, nor proud, + Nor curious at all. + He cannot tell + Old men's placidity from his. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, + That they should be as stones. + Wretched are they, and mean + With paucity that never was simplicity. + By choice they made themselves immune + To pity and whatever mourns in man + Before the last sea and the hapless stars; + Whatever mourns when many leave these shores; + Whatever shares + The eternal reciprocity of tears. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Dulce et Decorum est + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, + Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, + Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, + And towards our distant rest began to trudge. + Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, + But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; + Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots + Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. + + Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling + Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, + But someone still was yelling out and stumbling + And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.— + Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, + As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. + + In all my dreams before my helpless sight + He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. + + If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace + Behind the wagon that we flung him in, + And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, + His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, + If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood + Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs + Bitter as the cud + Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— + My friend, you would not tell with such high zest + To children ardent for some desperate glory, + The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est + Pro patria mori. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Sentry + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, + And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell + Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. + Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime + Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, + Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. + What murk of air remained stank old, and sour + With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men + Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, + If not their corpses. . . . + There we herded from the blast + Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. + Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. + And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping + And splashing in the flood, deluging muck— + The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles + Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. + We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined + "O sir, my eyes—I'm blind—I'm blind, I'm blind!" + Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids + And said if he could see the least blurred light + He was not blind; in time he'd get all right. + "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids + Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there + In posting next for duty, and sending a scout + To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about + To other posts under the shrieking air. + + Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, + And one who would have drowned himself for good,— + I try not to remember these things now. + Let dread hark back for one word only: how + Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, + And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, + Renewed most horribly whenever crumps + Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath— + Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout + "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Dead-Beat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He dropped,—more sullenly than wearily, + Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, + And none of us could kick him to his feet; + Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; + —Didn't appear to know a war was on, + Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. + "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared, + I'll murder them, I will." + + A low voice said, + "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, + Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead: + Bold uncles, smiling ministerially; + Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun + In some new home, improved materially. + It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun." + + We sent him down at last, out of the way. + Unwounded;—stout lad, too, before that strafe. + Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!" + + Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: + "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Exposure + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . + Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . + Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . . + Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, + But nothing happens. + + Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire. + Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. + Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, + Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. + What are we doing here? + + The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . . + We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. + Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army + Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, + But nothing happens. + + Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. + Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, + With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, + We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, + But nothing happens. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces— + We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, + Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, + Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. + Is it that we are dying? + + Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed + With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; + For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; + Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed— + We turn back to our dying. + + Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; + Nor ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. + For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid; + Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, + For love of God seems dying. + + To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, + Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. + The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, + Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, + But nothing happens. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Spring Offensive + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Halted against the shade of a last hill, + They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease + And, finding comfortable chests and knees + Carelessly slept. But many there stood still + To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, + Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world. + + Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled + By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge, + For though the summer oozed into their veins + Like the injected drug for their bones' pains, + Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass, + Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass. + + Hour after hour they ponder the warm field— + And the far valley behind, where the buttercups + Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up, + Where even the little brambles would not yield, + But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands; + They breathe like trees unstirred. + + Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word + At which each body and its soul begird + And tighten them for battle. No alarms + Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste— + Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced + The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done. + O larger shone that smile against the sun,— + Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned. + + So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together + Over an open stretch of herb and heather + Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned + With fury against them; and soft sudden cups + Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes + Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space. + + Of them who running on that last high place + Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up + On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, + Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge, + Some say God caught them even before they fell. + + But what say such as from existence' brink + Ventured but drave too swift to sink. + The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, + And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames + With superhuman inhumanities, + Long-famous glories, immemorial shames— + And crawling slowly back, have by degrees + Regained cool peaceful air in wonder— + Why speak they not of comrades that went under? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Chances + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I mind as 'ow the night afore that show + Us five got talking,—we was in the know, + "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, + First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." + "Ah well," says Jimmy,—an' 'e's seen some scrappin'— + "There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen; + Ye get knocked out; else wounded—bad or cushy; + Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy." + + One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. + T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. + An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, + 'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz. + Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty + (Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty), + But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; + 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; + 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot— + The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + S. I. W. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I will to the King, + And offer him consolation in his trouble, + For that man there has set his teeth to die, + And being one that hates obedience, + Discipline, and orderliness of life, + I cannot mourn him." + W. B. Yeats. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad + He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; + Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,— + Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. + Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret + Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. + Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . + Brothers—would send his favourite cigarette, + Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, + Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, + Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim + And misses teased the hunger of his brain. + His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand + Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand + From the best sandbags after years of rain. + But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, + Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld + For torture of lying machinally shelled, + At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok. + + He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, + Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. + "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" + So Father said. + + One dawn, our wire patrol + Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. + We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. + Could it be accident?—Rifles go off . . . + Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.) + + It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. + Against the fires that would not burn him whole + But kept him for death's perjury and scoff + And life's half-promising, and both their riling. + + With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, + And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Futility + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Move him into the sun— + Gently its touch awoke him once, + At home, whispering of fields unsown. + Always it woke him, even in France, + Until this morning and this snow. + If anything might rouse him now + The kind old sun will know. + + Think how it wakes the seeds— + Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. + Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides + Full-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir? + Was it for this the clay grew tall? + —O what made fatuous sunbeams toil + To break earth's sleep at all? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Smile, Smile, Smile + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned + Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) + And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. + Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned; + For, said the paper, "When this war is done + The men's first instinct will be making homes. + Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, + It being certain war has just begun. + Peace would do wrong to our undying dead,— + The sons we offered might regret they died + If we got nothing lasting in their stead. + We must be solidly indemnified. + Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, + We rulers sitting in this ancient spot + Would wrong our very selves if we forgot + The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, + Who kept this nation in integrity." + Nation?—The half-limbed readers did not chafe + But smiled at one another curiously + Like secret men who know their secret safe. + This is the thing they know and never speak, + That England one by one had fled to France + (Not many elsewhere now save under France). + Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, + And people in whose voice real feeling rings + Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 23rd September 1918. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Conscious + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. + His eyes come open with a pull of will, + Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. + A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . . + How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug! + And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight? + Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug? + "Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right." + + But sudden dusk bewilders all the air— + There seems no time to want a drink of water. + Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere + Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter. + Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot: + And there's no light to see the voices by— + No time to dream, and ask—he knows not what. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Terre + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell, + Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall. + Both arms have mutinied against me—brutes. + My fingers fidget like ten idle brats. + + I tried to peg out soldierly—no use! + One dies of war like any old disease. + This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. + I have my medals?—Discs to make eyes close. + My glorious ribbons?—Ripped from my own back + In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.) + + A short life and a merry one, my brick! + We used to say we'd hate to live dead old,— + Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald, + And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys + At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose + Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting, + Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting. + Well, that's what I learnt,—that, and making money. + Your fifty years ahead seem none too many? + Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year + To help myself to nothing more than air! + One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long? + Spring wind would work its own way to my lung, + And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. + My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts! + When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that. + Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought + How well I might have swept his floors for ever, + I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over, + Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced + Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust, + Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn, + Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan? + I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town, + Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? + + O Life, Life, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat! + Not worse than ours the existences rats lead— + Nosing along at night down some safe vat, + They find a shell-proof home before they rot. + Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, + Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, + And subdivide, and never come to death, + Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. + "I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone." + Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned; + The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. + "Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know. + To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, + For all the usefulness there is in soap. + D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup? + Some day, no doubt, if . . . + Friend, be very sure + I shall be better off with plants that share + More peaceably the meadow and the shower. + Soft rains will touch me,—as they could touch once, + And nothing but the sun shall make me ware. + Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear; + Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince. + Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest. + Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, + But here the thing's best left at home with friends. + + My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, + To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased + On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds. + + Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned + To do without what blood remained these wounds. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Wild with all Regrets + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Another version of "A Terre".) + + To Siegfried Sassoon +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My arms have mutinied against me—brutes! + My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, + My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours. + Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease. + I can't read. There: it's no use. Take your book. + A short life and a merry one, my buck! + We said we'd hate to grow dead old. But now, + Not to live old seems awful: not to renew + My boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting, + Shooting and hunting,—all the arts of hurting! + —Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money. + Your fifty years in store seem none too many; + But I've five minutes. God! For just two years + To help myself to this good air of yours! + One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long? + Spring air would find its own way to my lung, + And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. + + Yes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets + When I'm lugged out, oh, couldn't I do that? + Here in this coffin of a bed, I've thought + I'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,— + And ask no nights off when the bustle's over, + For I'd enjoy the dirt; who's prejudiced + Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,— + Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn? + Dear dust,—in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan! + I'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town; + Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? + A flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody, + Or went stone-cold, I'd find another body. + + Which I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours. + I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours. + You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest, + And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased + On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind. + + I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned + To do without what blood remained me from my wound. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 5th December 1917. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Disabled + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, + And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, + Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park + Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, + Voices of play and pleasure after day, + Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. + + About this time Town used to swing so gay + When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees + And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, + —In the old times, before he threw away his knees. + Now he will never feel again how slim + Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, + All of them touch him like some queer disease. + + There was an artist silly for his face, + For it was younger than his youth, last year. + Now he is old; his back will never brace; + He's lost his colour very far from here, + Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, + And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race, + And leap of purple spurted from his thigh. + One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg, + After the matches carried shoulder-high. + It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, + He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . . + Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts. + + That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, + Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts, + He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; + Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years. + Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears + Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts + For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; + And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; + Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. + And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. + + Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. + Only a solemn man who brought him fruits + Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. + Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes, + And do what things the rules consider wise, + And take whatever pity they may dole. + To-night he noticed how the women's eyes + Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. + How cold and late it is! Why don't they come + And put him into bed? Why don't they come? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The End + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + After the blast of lightning from the east, + The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne, + After the drums of time have rolled and ceased + And from the bronze west long retreat is blown, + + Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth + All death will he annul, all tears assuage? + Or fill these void veins full again with youth + And wash with an immortal water age? + + When I do ask white Age, he saith not so,— + "My head hangs weighed with snow." + And when I hearken to the Earth she saith + My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death. + Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified + Nor my titanic tears the seas be dried." +</pre> + <p> + [End of original text.] <a name="link2H_APPE" id="link2H_APPE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Appendix + </h2> + <p> + General Notes:— + </p> + <p> + Due to the general circumstances surrounding Wilfred Owen, and his death + one week before the war ended, it should be noted that these poems are not + all in their final form. Owen had only had a few of his poems published + during his lifetime, and his papers were in a state of disarray when + Siegfried Sassoon, his friend and fellow poet, put together this volume. + The 1920 edition was the first edition of Owen's poems, the 1921 reprint + (of which this is a transcript) added one more—and nothing else + happened until Edmund Blunden's 1931 edition. Even with that edition, + there remained gaps, and several more editions added more and more poems + and fragments, in various forms, as it was difficult to tell which of + Owen's drafts were his final ones, until Jon Stallworthy's "Complete Poems + and Fragments" (1983) included all that could be found, and tried to put + them in chronological order, with the latest revisions, etc. + </p> + <p> + Therefore, it should not be surprising if some or most of these poems + differ from later editions. + </p> + <p> + After Owen's death, his writings gradually gained pre-eminence, so that, + although virtually unknown during the war, he came into high regard. + Benjamin Britten, the British composer who set nine of Owen's works as the + text of his "War Requiem" (shortly after the Second World War), called + Owen "by far our greatest war poet, and one of the most original poets of + this century." (Owen is especially noted for his use of pararhyme.) Five + of those nine texts are some form of poems included here, to wit: 'Anthem + for Doomed Youth', 'Futility', 'Parable of the Old Men and the Young', + 'The End', and 'Strange Meeting'. The other four were '[Bugles Sang]', + 'The Next War', 'Sonnet [Be slowly lifted up]' and 'At a Calvary Near the + Ancre'—all of which the reader may wish to pursue, being some of + Owen's finest work. Fortunately, the poem which I consider his best, and + which is one of his most quoted—'Dulce et Decorum est', is included + in this volume. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div class="mynote"> + <p> + Transcriber's Specific Notes:— + </p> + <p> + Blighty: England, or a wound that would take a soldier home (to + England). + </p> + <p> + S. I. W.: Self Inflicted Wound. + </p> + <p> + Parable of the Old Men and the Young: A retold story from the Bible, but + with a different ending. The phrase "Abram bound the youth with belts + and straps" refers to the youth who went to war, with all their + equipment belted and strapped on. Other versions of this poem have an + additional line. + </p> + <p> + Dulce et Decorum est: The phrase "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" + is a Latin phrase from Horace, and translates literally something like + "Sweet and proper it is for your country (fatherland) to die." The poem + was originally intended to be addressed to an author who had written war + poems for children. "Dim through the misty panes . . ." should be + understood by anyone who has worn a gas mask. + </p> + <p> + Alan R. Light. Monroe, North Carolina, July, 1997. + </p> + <br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1034 ***</div> +</body> +</html> |