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 nowThe 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 sidesFull-nerved,—still warm,—too hard to stir?Was it for this the clay grew tall?—O what made fatuous sunbeams toilTo break earth's sleep at all?
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scannedYesterday'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 doneThe 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 diedIf 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 spotWould wrong our very selves if we forgotThe greatest glory will be theirs who fought,Who kept this nation in integrity."Nation?—The half-limbed readers did not chafeBut smiled at one another curiouslyLike 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 ringsSay: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.
23rd September 1918.
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 everywhereMusic 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.
(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.)
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 backIn 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 boysAt least the jokes hurled at them. I supposeLittle 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 yearTo 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 thoughtHow 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 prejudicedAgainst 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 sureI shall be better off with plants that shareMore 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 chasedOn other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.Carry my crying spirit till it's weanedTo do without what blood remained these wounds.
(Another version of "A Terre".)To Siegfried Sassoon
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 renewMy 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 yearsTo 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 sheetsWhen I'm lugged out, oh, couldn't I do that?Here in this coffin of a bed, I've thoughtI'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 prejudicedAgainst 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 chasedOn sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weanedTo do without what blood remained me from my wound.
5th December 1917.
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the parkVoices 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 gayWhen glow-lamps budded in the light-blue treesAnd 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 slimGirls' 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 fearsOf Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hiltsFor 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 fruitsThanked 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 eyesPassed from him to the strong men that were whole.How cold and late it is! Why don't they comeAnd put him into bed? Why don't they come?
After the blast of lightning from the east,The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,After the drums of time have rolled and ceasedAnd from the bronze west long retreat is blown,Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truthAll death will he annul, all tears assuage?Or fill these void veins full again with youthAnd 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 saithMy fiery heart sinks aching. It is death.Mine ancient scars shall not be glorifiedNor my titanic tears the seas be dried."
[End of original text.]
General Notes:—
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.
Therefore, it should not be surprising if some or most of these poems differ from later editions.
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.
Transcriber's Specific Notes:—Blighty: England, or a wound that would take a soldier home (to England).S. I. W.: Self Inflicted Wound.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.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.Alan R. Light. Monroe, North Carolina, July, 1997.
Transcriber's Specific Notes:—
Blighty: England, or a wound that would take a soldier home (to England).
S. I. W.: Self Inflicted Wound.
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.
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.
Alan R. Light. Monroe, North Carolina, July, 1997.