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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
stretched 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。 。 。 。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Arms and the Boy
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Anthem for Doomed Youth
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Send…off
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Insensibility
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。
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。
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。
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
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
sings along the march Which we march taciturn； because of dusk； The
long； forlorn； relentless trend From larger day to huger night。
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。
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Dulce et Decorum est
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug…out； and he knew； And gave us hell； for
shell on frantic shell Hammered on top； but nev