Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen
| 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 pleasures 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. |
| Their was an artist silly for his face, |
| For it was younger than his youth, last year. |
| Now, he is old; his back willnever 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 blood-smear down his leg, |
| After the match, 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 may be, too, to please his Meg; |
| Aye, that was it , to please the giddy jilts |
| He'd asked to join. He didn't have to beg; |
| Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years. |
| Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt, |
| And Austria's, did not move him. 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 fro 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 itis! Why don't they come |
| And put him into bed? Why don't they come? |
|
Wilfred Owen |
Lest we forget
Lest we forget
