Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Page 3

  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 too swift to sink.

  The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,

  And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames

  With superhuman inhumanities,

  Long-famous glories, immemorial shames —

  And crawling slowly back, have by degrees

  Regained cool peaceful air in wonder —

  Why speak they not of comrades that went under?

  The Chances

  I mind as ‘ow the night afore that show

  Us 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 lad

  He’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 fret

  Until 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 aim

  And misses teased the hunger of his brain.

  His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand

  Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand

  From the best sandbags after years of rain.

  But never leave, wound, 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.”

  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?

  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.

  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.

  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.

  “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 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.

  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.

  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 b
udded 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?

  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