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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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Dead…Beat
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！〃
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Exposure
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。
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； Now ever suns
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Spring Offensive
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