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fever； trench…foot； shock； Untrapped the wretch。 And death seemed still
withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled； At the pleasure of this
world's Powers who'd run amok。
He'd seen men shoot their hands； on night patrol； Their people never
knew。 Yet they were vile。 〃Death sooner than dishonour； that's the style！〃
So Father said。
One dawn； our wire patrol Carried him。 This time； Death had not
missed。 We could do nothing； but wipe his bleeding cough。 Could it be
accident？ Rifles go off 。 。 。 Not sniped？ No。 （Later they found the
English ball。）
It was the reasoned crisis of his soul。 Against the fires that would not
burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half…
promising； and both their riling。
With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed； And truthfully
wrote the Mother 〃Tim died smiling。〃
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Futility
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 now The 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 sides Full…nerved； still warm； too hard
to stir？ Was it for this the clay grew tall？ O what made fatuous
sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all？
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Smile； Smile； Smile
Head to limp head； the sunk…eyed wounded scanned Yesterday'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 done The 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 died If 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 spot Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought； Who kept this nation in
integrity。〃 Nation？ The half…limbed readers did not chafe But smiled at
one another curiously Like 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
rings Say： How they smile！ They're happy now； poor things。
23rd September 1918。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Conscious
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 everywhere Music 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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
A Terre
（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
back In 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 boys At least the jokes hurled at them。 I suppose Little
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 year To 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 thought How 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 prejudiced Against 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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
〃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 sure I
shall be better off wit