Delphi Complete Works of Wilfred Owen (Illustrated) E-Book

Wilfred Owen

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 961

Beschreibung

The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature's finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents the complete poetical works of the beloved war poet Wilfred Owen, with beautiful illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material.

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Owen's life and works
* Concise introduction to Owen and his poetry
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Includes rare poems and fragments often missed out of collections, with over 140 poems, many appearing for the first time in digital print
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read, which are organised in the most precise chronological order possible
* Includes Owen's letters - spend hours exploring the poet's personal correspondence
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

CONTENTS:

The Poetry Collections
Poems, 1920
The Complete Poems
The Fragments

The Poems
List Of Poems In Chronological Order
List Of Poems In Alphabetical Order

The Letters
The Letters Of Wilfred Owen
Index Of Letters By Year Of Composition
List Of Correspondents And Dates

Leseprobe

WILFRED OWEN

(1893-1918)

Contents

The Poetry Collections

POEMS, 1920

THE COMPLETE POEMS

THE FRAGMENTS

The Poems

LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Letters

THE LETTERS OF WILFRED OWEN

INDEX OF LETTERS BY YEAR OF COMPOSITION

LIST OF CORRESPONDENTS AND DATES

©Delphi Classics 2012

Version 1

WILFRED OWEN

By Delphi Classics, 2012

NOTE

When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

The Poetry Collections

‘Plas Wilmot’, Weston Lane, near Oswestry in Shropshire — Owen’s birthplace

Owen’s parents, c. 1914

POEMS, 1920

Regarded by many critics as the greatest of the War poets, Wilfred Owen created a brief body of poetry that would change the public’s perception of war.  Previously poets depicted war as a patriotic and grand affair, full of noble deeds and great adventures.  But it was the work of Owen and other poets like Siegfried Sassoon that brought home the true nature of war, including the horrors of trench and gas warfare, as well as the sensitive portrayal of the soldiers’ experiences of war.

Born to a middle-class family, Owen grew up in Oswestry in Shropshire, on the border between Wales and England.  He was interested in poetry from a young age, particularly cherishing the works of Keats and Shelley.  Owen had been writing poetry himself for some years before the outbreak of war in 1914 and he later wrote that his poetic beginnings originated from a visit to Broxton by the Hill, when he was ten years old. Undoubtedly the Romantic poets had the greatest influence on the style of Owen’s early poetry.

On 21 October 1915, Owen enlisted in the Artists’ Rifles Officers’ Training Corps. For the next seven months, he trained at the Hare Hall Camp in Essex. On 4 June 1916 he was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Manchester Regiment. Starting the war as an optimistic young man, he was to change drastically in character forever, mostly due to two traumatic experiences. Firstly, he was blown high into the air by a trench mortar, landing among the remains of a fellow officer; and secondly, he became trapped for several days in an old German dugout. Following these two events, Owen was diagnosed as suffering from shell shock and sent to Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh for treatment. It was while recuperating at Craiglockhart that he met his fellow poet Siegfried Sassoon, which encounter would result in changing the course of Owen’s life and writing.

Sassoon had a profound effect on the young soldier’s poetic voice and some of Owen’s most celebrated poems, including Dulce et Decorum Est and Anthem for Doomed Youth, were directly affected by Sassoon’s influence. Many manuscript copies of the poems survive, which are clearly annotated in Sassoon’s handwriting. Owen was always in awe of his older friend, once writing to his mother that he “was not worthy to light Sassoon’s pipe”.  Nevertheless, Owen’s poetry would eventually be more widely acclaimed than that of his mentor.

Owen’s poetry underwent significant changes in 1917. His doctor at Craiglockhart, Arthur Brock, encouraged the young poet to translate his experiences in writing, specifically the horrors he relived in his dreams. Sassoon, who was influenced by Freudian psychoanalysis, also encouraged Owen to include satire and a more graphic use of language and realism.  Owen was intrigued with the concept of ‘writing from experience’, entirely contrary to his previous romantic style. But where Owen advances further than many of the other war poets, perhaps even Sassoon himself, was not only his depiction of the gritty realism of war, but also his sympathetic portrayal of the soldiers’ experiences.  He created a poetic synthesis of potent imagery and sensitive thought, creating a style of war poetry that was unprecedented and rich in depth. 

In July 1918, Owen returned to active service in France, although he could have remained on home-duty indefinitely. His decision was almost wholly the result of Sassoon’s being sent back to England, after being shot in the head in a friendly fire incident and put on sick-leave for the remaining duration of the war. Owen saw it as his patriotic duty to take Sassoon’s place at the front and continue to write about the horrific realities of the war experienced by the soldiers. Sassoon was violently opposed to Owen returning to the trenches, threatening to “stab him in the leg” if he attempted to go. Aware of his attitude, Owen left for France in secret. Tragically, he was killed in action on 4 November 1918 during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal, exactly one week before the signing of the Armistice and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day, as the church bells were ringing out in celebration.

Preserving Owen’s works from obscurity, Sassoon was directly responsible for promoting his poetry after the war.  Sassoon edited Owen’s manuscripts and was instrumental in the making of Owen as a great poet. Only five of Owen’s poems were published before his death, with one in fragmentary form. In 1920, Sassoon published, with an introduction by himself, the following collection of Owen’s poetry, featuring 18 of his most accomplished poems.

Almost all of the poems for which Owen is now chiefly remembered were written in a creative burst between August 1917 and September 1918. His self-appointed task was to speak for the men in his care, to show the ‘Pity of War’, and, in a preface he wrote shortly before his death, he explains that ‘the pity is in the poetry’.

Wilfred Owen, 1916

Wilfred Owen with Artists’ Rifles Group, November 1915

CONTENTS

Introduction

Preface

Strange Meeting

Greater Love

Apologia pro Poemate Meo

The Show

Mental Cases

Parable of the Old Men and the Young

Arms and the Boy

Anthem for Doomed Youth

The Send-off

Insensibility

Dulce et Decorum est

The Sentry

The Dead-Beat

Exposure

Spring Offensive

The Chances

S. I. W.

Futility

Smile, Smile, Smile

Conscious

A Terre

Wild with all Regrets

Disabled

THE END

Siegfried Sassoon, (1886-1967) — poet, author and soldier, decorated for bravery on the Western Front. His influence on Owen’s work was profound, shaping the style and direction of his poetry.

The first edition of the collection

Introduction

In writing an Introduction such as this it is good to be brief. The poems printed in this book need no preliminary commendations from me or anyone else. The author has left us his own fragmentary but impressive Foreword; this, and his Poems, can speak for him, backed by the authority of his experience as an infantry soldier, and sustained by nobility and originality of style. All that was strongest in Wilfred Owen survives in his poems; any superficial impressions of his personality, any records of his conversation, behaviour, or appearance, would be irrelevant and unseemly. The curiosity which demands such morsels would be incapable of appreciating the richness of his work.

The discussion of his experiments in assonance and dissonance (of which ‘Strange Meeting’ is the finest example) may be left to the professional critics of verse, the majority of whom will be more preoccupied with such technical details than with the profound humanity of the self- revelation manifested in such magnificent lines as those at the end of his ‘Apologia pro Poemate Meo’, and in that other poem which he named ‘Greater Love’.

The importance of his contribution to the literature of the War cannot be decided by those who, like myself, both admired him as a poet and valued him as a friend. His conclusions about War are so entirely in accordance with my own that I cannot attempt to judge his work with any critical detachment. I can only affirm that he was a man of absolute integrity of mind. He never wrote his poems (as so many war-poets did) to make the effect of a personal gesture. He pitied others; he did not pity himself. In the last year of his life he attained a clear vision of what he needed to say, and these poems survive him as his true and splendid testament.

Wilfred Owen was born at Oswestry on 18th March 1893. He was educated at the Birkenhead Institute, and matriculated at London University in 1910. In 1913 he obtained a private tutorship near Bordeaux, where he remained until 1915. During this period he became acquainted with the eminent French poet, Laurent Tailhade, to whom he showed his early verses, and from whom he received considerable encouragement. In 1915, in spite of delicate health, he joined the Artists’ Rifles O.T.C., was gazetted to the Manchester Regiment, and served with their 2nd Battalion in France from December 1916 to June 1917, when he was invalided home. Fourteen months later he returned to the Western Front and served with the same Battalion, ultimately commanding a Company.

He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry while taking part in some heavy fighting on 1st October. He was killed on 4th November 1918, while endeavouring to get his men across the Sambre Canal.

A month before his death he wrote to his mother: “My nerves are in perfect order. I came out again in order to help these boys; directly, by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can.” Let his own words be his epitaph: —

“Courage was mine, and I had mystery;

Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery.”

Siegfried Sassoon.

POEMS

Preface

This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, dominion or power,         except War.  Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.  The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.  The Poetry is in the pity.  Yet these elegies are not to this generation,          This is in no sense consolatory.

  They may be to the next.  All the poet can do to-day is to warn.  That is why the true Poets must be truthful.  If I thought the letter of this book would last,  I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives  Prussia, — my ambition and those names will be content; for they will  have achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders.     Note. — This Preface was found, in an unfinished condition,               among Wilfred Owen’s papers.

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of the battle I escapedDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scoopedThrough granites which Titanic wars had groined.Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and staredWith piteous recognition in fixed eyes,Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.“Strange, friend,” I said, “Here is no cause to mourn.”“None,” said the other, “Save the undone years,The hopelessness.  Whatever hope is yours,Was my life also; I went hunting wildAfter the wildest beauty in the world,Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,But mocks the steady running of the hour,And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.For by my glee might many men have laughed,And of my weeping something has been left,Which must die now.  I mean the truth untold,The pity of war, the pity war distilled.Now men will go content with what we spoiled.Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.Courage was mine, and I had mystery;Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;To miss the march of this retreating worldInto vain citadels that are not walled.Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheelsI would go up and wash them from sweet wells,Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.I would have poured my spirit without stintBut not through wounds; not on the cess of war.Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.I am the enemy you killed, my friend.I knew you in this dark; for so you frownedYesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.Let us sleep now . . .”    (This poem was found among the author’s papers.    It ends on this strange note.)  *Another Version*

Earth’s wheels run oiled with blood.  Forget we that.Let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought.Beauty is yours and you have mastery,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 worldInto old citadels that are not walled.Let us lie out and hold the open truth.Then when their blood hath clogged the chariot wheelsWe will go up and wash them from deep wells.What though we sink from men as pitchers fallingMany shall raise us up to be their fillingEven from wells we sunk too deep for warAnd filled by brows that bled where no wounds were.

*Alternative line — *

Even as One who bled where no wounds were.

Greater Love

Red lips are not so red   As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.Kindness of wooed and wooerSeems 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 thereWhere 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 trailYour cross through flame and hail:   Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.

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.

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 plugsOf ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed.

By them had slimy paths been trailed and scrapedRound 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 openingsAs 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 hidIts 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.

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 palmsMisery swelters.  Surely we have perishedSleeping, 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 squanderRucked too thick for these men’s extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormentedBack into their brains, because on their senseSunlight 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.

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 bound the youth with belts and straps,And builded parapets and trenches there,And stretch\ed 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. . . .

Arms and the Boy

Let the boy try along this bayonet-bladeHow 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-headsWhich 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.

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 rattleCan 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 eyesShall 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.

The Send-off

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their wayTo the siding-shed,And lined the train with faces grimly gay.

Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and sprayAs men’s are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual trampStood staring hard,Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lampWinked 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 meantWho gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bellsIn wild trainloads?A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.

Insensibility

I

Happy are men who yet before they are killedCan let their veins run cold.Whom no compassion fleersOr makes their feetSore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.The front line withers,But they are troops who fade, not flowersFor poets’ tearful fooling:Men, gaps for fillingLosses who might have foughtLonger; but no one bothers.

II

And some cease feelingEven themselves or for themselves.Dullness best solvesThe tease and doubt of shelling,And Chance’s strange arithmeticComes 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 ridOf 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 battleNow long since ironed,Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.

IV

Happy the soldier home, with not a notionHow 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 sings along the marchWhich we march taciturn, because of dusk,The long, forlorn, relentless trendFrom larger day to huger night.

V

We wise, who with a thought besmirchBlood over all our soul,How should we see our taskBut 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 tellOld men’s placidity from his.

VI

But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,That they should be as stones.Wretched are they, and meanWith paucity that never was simplicity.By choice they made themselves immuneTo pity and whatever mourns in manBefore the last sea and the hapless stars;Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;Whatever sharesThe eternal reciprocity of tears.

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 hootsOf gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas!  GAS!  Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumblingFitting the clumsy helmets just in time,But someone still was yelling out and stumblingAnd 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 sightHe plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could paceBehind 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 bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsBitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, — My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie:  Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

The Sentry

We’d found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shellHammered on top, but never quite burst through.Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slimeKept 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 sourWith fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of menWho’d lived there years, and left their curse in the den,If not their corpses. . . .             There we herded from the blastOf 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 thumpingAnd splashing in the flood, deluging muck — The sentry’s body; then his rifle, handlesOf 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 lidsAnd said if he could see the least blurred lightHe was not blind; in time he’d get all right.“I can’t,” he sobbed.  Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squidsWatch my dreams still; but I forgot him thereIn posting next for duty, and sending a scoutTo beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering aboutTo 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:  howHalf-listening to that sentry’s moans and jumps,And the wild chattering of his broken teeth,Renewed most horribly whenever crumpsPummelled 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.

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 funIn 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!”

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 armyAttacks 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 glozedWith 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 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.

Spring Offensive

Halted against the shade of a last hill,They fed, and, lying easy, were at easeAnd, finding comfortable chests and kneesCarelessly slept.  But many there stood stillTo 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 swirledBy the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,For though the summer oozed into their veinsLike 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 buttercupsHad 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 wordAt which each body and its soul begirdAnd tighten them for battle.  No alarmsOf bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste — Only a lift and flare of eyes that facedThe 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 togetherOver an open stretch of herb and heatherExposed.  And instantly the whole sky burnedWith fury against them; and soft sudden cupsOpened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopesChasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high placeLeapt to swift unseen bullets, or went upOn 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’ brinkVentured but drave too swift to sink.The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,And there out-fiending all its fiends and flamesWith superhuman inhumanities,Long-famous glories, immemorial shames — And crawling slowly back, have by degreesRegained cool peaceful air in wonder — Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

The Chances

I mind as ‘ow the night afore that showUs five got talking, — we was in the know,“Over the top to-morrer; boys, we’re for it,First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that’s tore it.”“Ah well,” says Jimmy, — an’ ‘e’s seen some scrappin’ — “There ain’t more nor five things as can ‘appen;Ye get knocked out; else wounded — bad or cushy;Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy.”

One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops.T’other was hurt, like, losin’ both ‘is props.An’ one, to use the word of ‘ypocrites,‘Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz.Now me, I wasn’t scratched, praise God Almighty(Though next time please I’ll thank ‘im for a blighty),But poor young Jim, ‘e’s livin’ an’ ‘e’s not;‘E reckoned ‘e’d five chances, an’ ‘e’s ‘ad;‘E’s wounded, killed, and pris’ner, all the lot — The ruddy lot all rolled in one.  Jim’s mad.

S. I. W.

    “I will to the King,    And offer him consolation in his trouble,    For that man there has set his teeth to die,    And being one that hates obedience,    Discipline, and orderliness of life,    I cannot mourn him.”

W. B. Yeats.

Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the ladHe’d always show the Hun a brave man’s face;Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace, — Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she’d fretUntil he got a nice, safe wound to nurse.Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . .Brothers — would send his favourite cigarette,Each week, month after month, they wrote the same,Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut,Where once an hour a bullet missed its aimAnd misses teased the hunger of his brain.His eyes grew old with wincing, and his handReckless with ague.  Courage leaked, as sandFrom the best sandbags after years of rain.But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,Untrapped the wretch.  And death seemed still withheldFor 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 patrolCarried 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 wholeBut kept him for death’s perjury and scoffAnd 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.”

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 nowThe 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 sidesFull-nerved, — still warm, — too hard to stir?Was it for this the clay grew tall?  — O what made fatuous sunbeams toilTo break earth’s sleep at all?

Smile, Smile, Smile

Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scannedYesterday’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 doneThe 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 diedIf 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 spotWould wrong our very selves if we forgotThe greatest glory will be theirs who fought,Who kept this nation in integrity.”Nation? — The half-limbed readers did not chafeBut smiled at one another curiouslyLike 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 ringsSay:  How they smile!  They’re happy now, poor things.23rd September 1918.

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 everywhereMusic 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.

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 backIn 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 boysAt least the jokes hurled at them.  I supposeLittle 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 yearTo 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 thoughtHow 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 prejudicedAgainst 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.“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 sureI shall be better off with plants that shareMore 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 chasedOn other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

Carry my crying spirit till it’s weanedTo do without what blood remained these wounds.

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 renewMy 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 yearsTo 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 sheetsWhen I’m lugged out, oh, couldn’t I do that?Here in this coffin of a bed, I’ve thoughtI’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 prejudicedAgainst 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 chasedOn sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.

I think on your rich breathing, brother, I’ll be weanedTo do without what blood remained me from my wound.5th December 1917.

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 parkVoices 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 gayWhen glow-lamps budded in the light-blue treesAnd 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 slimGirls’ 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 fearsOf Fear came yet.  He thought of jewelled hiltsFor 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 fruitsThanked 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 eyesPassed from him to the strong men that were whole.How cold and late it is!  Why don’t they comeAnd put him into bed?  Why don’t they come?

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 ceasedAnd from the bronze west long retreat is blown,

Shall Life renew these bodies?  Of a truthAll death will he annul, all tears assuage?Or fill these void veins full again with youthAnd 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 saithMy fiery heart sinks aching.  It is death.Mine ancient scars shall not be glorifiedNor my titanic tears the seas be dried.”

End of original text.

THE COMPLETE POEMS

CONTENTS

TO POESY

WRITTEN IN A WOOD, SEPTEMBER 1910

MY DEAREST COLIN

SONNET

LINES WRITTEN ON MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY

SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECONDRATE SENSITIVE MIND IN DEJECTION

O BELIEVE THAT GOD GIVES YOU ALL THAT HE PROMISES

LITTLE CLAUS AND BIG CLAUS

THE RIVALS

A RHYMED EPISTLE TO E.L.G.

THE DREAD OF FALLING INTO NAUGHT

SCIENCE HAS LOOKED, AND SEES NO LIFE BUT THIS:

THE LITTLE MERMAID

THE TWO REFLECTIONS

DEEP UNDER TURFY GRASS AND HEAVV CLAY

UNTO WHAT PINNACLES OF DESPERATE HEIGHTS

IMPROMPTU

SONNET/DAILY I MUSE ON HER

BUT IT IS NOT ENOUGH TO LOOK UPON A ROLLING MAIN

URICONIUM

WHEN LATE I VIEWED THE GARDENS OF RICH MEN

LONG AGES PAST IN EGYPT THOU WERT WORSHIPPED

O WORLD OF MANY WORLDS, O LIFE OF LIVES

THE TIME WAS AEON; AND THE PLACE ALL EARTH

NOCTURNE

IMPROMPTU: NOW, LET ME FEEL

A PALINODE

IT WAS A NAVV BOY, SO PRIM, SO TRIM

WHEREAS MOST WOMEN LIVE THIS DIFFICULT LIFE

A NEW HEAVEN

THE STORM

TO THE BITTER SWEET-HEART:

ROUNDEL

HOW DO I LOVE THEE?

THE FATES

HAPPINESS

SONG OF SONGS

HAS YOUR SOUL SIPPED

THE SWIFT

INSPECTION

WITH AN IDENTITY DISC

THE PROMISERS

MUSIC

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

WINTER SONG

SIX O’CLOCK IN PRINCES STREET

THE ONE REMAINS

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

THE CITY LIGHTS ALONG THE WATERSIDE

AUTUMNAL

THE UNRETURNING

PERVERSITY

MAUNDY THURSDAY

THE PERIL OF LOVE

THE POET IN PAIN

WHITHER IS PASSED THE SOFTLY-VANISHED DAY?

ON MY SONGS

TO —  —

TO EROS

1914

PURPLE

ON A DREAM

STUNNED BY THEIR LIFE’S EXPLOSION INTO LOVE

FROM MY DIARY, JULY 1914

THE BALLAD OF MANY THORNS

I SAW HIS ROUND MOUTH’S CRIMSON DEEPEN AS IT FELL

APOLOGIA PRO POEMATE MEO

LE CHRISTIANISME

HOSPITAL BARGE

SWEET IS YOUR ANTIQUE BODY,NOT YET YOUNG

PAGE EGLANTINE

THE RIME OF THE YOUTHFUL MARINER

WHO IS THE GOD OF CANONGATE?

MY SHY HAND

AT A CALVARY NEAR THE ANCRE

MINERS

THE LETTER

CONSCIOUS

SCHOOLMISTRESS

DULCE ET DECORUM EST

A TEAR SONG

THE DEAD-BEAT

INSENSIBILITY

STRANGE MEETING

SONNET. ON SEEING A PIECE OF OUR HEAVY ARTILLERYBROUGHT INTO ACTION

ASLEEP

ARMS AND THE BOY

THE SHOW

FUTILITY

THE END

S.I.W.

THE CALLS

TRAINING

THE NEXT WAR

GREATER LOVE

THE LAST LAUGH

MENTAL CASES

THE CHANCES

THE SEND-OFF

THE PARABLE OF THE OLD MAN AND THE YOUNG

DISABLED

A TERRE

THE KIND GHOSTS

SOLDIER’S DREAM

I AM THE GHOST OF SHADWELL STAIR

ELEGY IN APRIL AND SEPTEMBER

EXPOSURE

THE SENTRY

SMILE, SMILE, SMILE

SPRING OFFENSIVE

Wilfred Owen (centre foreground) with the 5th Manchesters

TO POESY

A thousand suppliants stand around thy throne,Stricken with love for thee, O Poesy.I stand among them, and with them I groan,And stretch my arms for help. Oh, pity me!No man (save them thou gav’st the right to ascendAnd sit with thee, ‘nointing with unction fine,Calling thyself their servant and their friend)Has loved thee with a purer love than mine.For, as thou yieldest thy fair self so freeTo Masters not a few, so wayward menGive half their adoration up to thee,Beseech another goddess guide their pen,And with another muse their pleasure take.Not so with me! I neither cease to love,Nor am content to love but for the sakeOf passing pleasures caught from thee above.For some will listen to thy trembling voiceSince in its mournful music warbling low,Or in its measured chants, or bubbling joysThey hear belovèd tunes of long ago.And some are but enamoured of thy graceAnd find it well to kneel to thee, and pray,Because there oft-times play upon thy faceSmiles of an earthly maiden far away.

Before the eyes of all thou hast the powerTo spread Elysium. Gorgeous memoriesOf days far distant in the past can flowerAfresh beneath thy touch; yet not for theseThy mighty spells I love and hymn thy name;Nor yet because thou know’st the unseen roadWhich leads unto the awful halls of Fame,Where, midst the heapèd honours, thine the loadMost richly prized, of all the crowns the best!No! not for these I long to win thee, Sweet!No more is this my fervent, hopeless quest -To stand among the great ones there, to meetThe bards of old and greet them as my peers.O impious thought! O I am mad to askE’en that their voice may ever reach my ears.

        Yet show thou me the task,That shall, as years advance, give power and skill,Firm hands; an eye which takes all beauty in,That I may woo thee thus, if thus thy will.Ah, gladly would I on such task beginBut that I know this learning must be boughtWith gold as well as toil, and gold I lack.What then? Dost bid me first seek out the CourtWhere this world’s wretched god, the money-sack,Doles out his favours to the cringing herd,There slave for him awhile to earn his pelf?E’en should I leave him soon, my heart is stirredWith glorious fear and trembles in itself,When I look forth upon the vasty seasOf learning to be travelled o’er.                            I fainWould know the hills, the founts, the very trees,Where sang the Greeks of old. I would have plainBefore my vision, heroes, poets, kings,Hear their clear accents; then observe where trodE’en mythic men; yea, next on Hermes’ wingsWould mount Olympus and discern each god.

All this to speed my suit with PoesyMeseems must do; and far, far more than this;In divers tongues my thoughts must flow out free;And, in my own tongue, with no word amiss,For all its writers must be known to me.My hand must wield the critic’s weapons, too,To save myself, or strike an enemy.Oh grant that this long training ne’er undoMy simple, ardent love! Throw early dewsOf inspiration oft-times on my brow.Let them fall suddenly and darkly as thou choose,Uncertain, fitful as the thunder-dropsWhich sprinkle us then cease, to splash once moreRapidly round, still pausing for long stops,Not knowing if to vent their heavy storeUpon the parching ground, or wait awhileTill hasty travelling winds bring increased worth.But as at last the concentrated pileOf seething vapours flings its might to earthIn spurts of fire and rain, and to the groundFlashes its energy, yields up its very soul,So, midst long triumph-roars of awful sound,Flash thou thy soul to me at last, and rollTorrential streams of thought upon my brain,So give, yea give Thyself to meAt last.We shall be happy, thou and I. In meThou’lt find a jealous guardian of thy charms,A doting master, leaving all to beEver with thee, ever in thine arms.Forget my youth, forget my ignorance,Spurn not my lowliness, and lack of friendsWho might help on my progress and perchancePresent me fearless at the throne where bendsFull timidly my lonely being now.Friends’ service would be naught if thine own handUplifted me; do not thine eyes endowFar brighter wealth than books, and far more grand?Then come! Come with a rushing impulse swift,Or draw near slowly, gently, so it beNever to part.        Round us the world may drift,Some with scoffs and frowns, with laughter some:Their hateful mockery I shall not heed.How could I feel ashamed to stand with oneWho deigns to stoop and be my life’s high meed?Yet if I would not for its jeering shunThe world, no more would I parade its courtsTo change those jeers to applause by showing menThy power. Publicity but poorly sortsMy sacred joy, if thou should’st guide my pen.

Loath would I be to show my exceeding blissEven to closest friends. But all unseen,And far from men’s gaze would I feel thy kiss;No witness save the speechless star-lamps keenWhen thou stoop’st over me. No eyeBut Cynthia’s look on us, when through the nightWe sit alone, our faces pressing nigh,Quietly shining in her quiet light.

WRITTEN IN A WOOD, SEPTEMBER 1910

Full ninety autumns hath this ancient beechHelped with its myriad leafy tongues to swellThe dirges of the deep-toned western gale,And ninety times hath all its power of speechBeen stricken dumb, at sound of winter’s yell,Since Adonais, no more strong and hale,Might have rejoiced to linger here and teachHis thoughts in sonnets to the listening dell;Or glide in fancy through those leafy grotsAnd bird-pavilions hung with arras green,To hear the sonnets of its minstrel choir.Ah, ninety times again, when autumn rotsShall birds and leaves be mute and all unseen,Yet shall I see fair Keats, and hear his lyre.

MY DEAREST COLIN

How glad I was to have your little letter,To know your throat is really, truly better.(My words, you see, are falling into verse-gear,I hope it will not make you any worse, dear!)

About your new Bird’s Egg Book worth six shillingsWhat can I say until myself I see it?But now it’s bought so dearly, so dearly        so dearlyO — carefully use it!Oh brown-paper-bind it!Or you’ll certainly lose it,Yes, and, I’ll find it!                (Oh really!                Oh really!)Then you’ll see it never moreSo don’t you leave it on the floor!                (D’you hear me,                D’you hear me?)Now let me tell you something of my doings -We all went out to tea last night to Painter’sAnd played a game I know you’d like to play at:We shot an air-gun at a target on their doorAnd even Vera did her level best to score.Hence excepting Auntie (for such sports too aged)We might have been all Bis(i)ley engaged.That afternoon we also saw the ‘Pictures’.The French boys always charm me, but the mixturesOf Blood and Thunder Stories sometimes shock me.How does Mary like her Book of Botany?I wish I could find some Pheasant’s Eggs or PartridgesTo bring you; but I got you lots of empty cartridges.P.S. — ’There was a boy so wondrous wiseHe tried to see his noseAnd turning inwards both his eyesHe now in glasses goes: -’must now be changed to‘There is a boy of ShrewsburyOn whom all doctors dote,He lets them take hot iodineAnd burn out half his throat.’ 

SONNET

Three colours have I known the Deep to wear;‘Tis well today that Purple grandeurs gloom,Veiling the Emerald sheen and Sky-blue glare.Well, too, that lowly-brooding clouds now loomIn sable majesty around, fringed fairWith ermine-white of surf: to me they bearWatery memorials of His mystic doomWhose Name was writ in Water (saith his tomb).Eternally may sad waves wail his death,Choke in their grief ‘mongst rocks where he has lain,Or heave in silence, yearning with hushed breath,While mournfully trail the slow-moved mists and rain,And softly the small drops slide from weeping trees,Quivering in anguish to the sobbing breeze. 

LINES WRITTEN ON MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY

March 18, 1912

Two Spirits woke me from my sleep this morn;Both most unwelcome were; for they have tomAway from me the shady screens of easeAnd unreflecting, unself-scanning PeaceWherein I used to hide me from annoyIn years which found and left me still a Boy.The First rose solemn, with a Voice of stemMonition; and it said: ‘Look back! and learnTo number life by moments, not by years;Know that thy youth to its completion nears.This night the final minute hath been laidUpon thy nineteen Springs. Aye, be dismayedTo see the Fourth Part of thy utmost SpanNow spent! What then? Affrighted dost thou planTo crowd the Rest with Action, every whit?Ev’n so essay; but know thou canst not knitThy web of hours so close as to regainE’en one lost stitch! For ever gaps remain!’Hereat it ceased; for now a second ShadeCaught all my senses to’t; no sound it made;No form it had; but quietly it drewIts tightening hand of Pain through every thewOf my frail body.... Pain? - Why Pain today?Sure, not a taste of what this tingling clayShall suffer through the year? And yet, if so,‘Twill be but my most rightful share, I trow,Scarce worse than the keen hunger-pinch that racksNumberless wretches all their life. Pain slacksIts hold on one, only to grasp another;And why should I be spared, and not my brother?

So thinking, quickly I pass the day. And lo!What kindnesses the Friends around me show!How many eyes in warm solicitudeHave smiled upon me! Tongues that have been rudeAre gentle now.... Yet still, how do I missThine eyes, thy voice, my Mother! Oft I kissThy portrait, and I clutch thy letter dearAs if it were thy hand.