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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。
*Alternative line …
Even as One who bled where no wounds were。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Greater Love
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Apologia pro Poemate Meo
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。
November 1917。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Show
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Mental Cases
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Parable of the Old Men and the
Young
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 bo