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will ever stew man…soup？ Some day； no doubt； if 。 。 。 Friend； be very sure I
shall be better off with plants that share More 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 chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds。
Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned To do without what blood
remained these wounds。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Wild with all Regrets
（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 renew My 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 years To 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 sheets When I'm lugged out； oh； couldn't I do that？ Here in this
coffin of a bed； I've thought I'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 prejudiced Against 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 chased On sighs； and wiped from
off your lips by wind。
I think on your rich breathing； brother； I'll be weaned To do without
what blood remained me from my wound。
5th December 1917。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Disabled
He sat in a wheeled chair； waiting for dark； And shivered in his ghastly
suit of grey； Legless； sewn short at elbow。 Through the park Voices 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 gay When glow…lamps budded
in the light…blue trees And 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 slim Girls' 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
fears Of Fear came yet。 He thought of jewelled hilts For 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 fruits Thanked 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 eyes Passed from him to the strong men that
were whole。 How cold and late it is！ Why don't they come And put him
into bed？ Why don't they come？
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The End
After the blast of lightning from the east； The flourish of loud clouds；
the Chariot throne； After the drums of time have rolled and ceased And
from the bronze west long retreat is blown；
Shall Life renew these bodies？ Of a truth All death will he annul； all
tears assuage？ Or fill these void veins full again with youth And 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 saith My fiery heart
sinks aching。 It is death。 Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified Nor my
titanic tears the seas be dried。〃
＇End of original text。＇
Appendix
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 Ow