Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Read online

  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.

  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 (SASSOON VERSION)

  DULCE ET DECORUM EST (STALLWORTHY VERSION)

  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 ascend

  And 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 free

  To Masters not a few, so wayward men

  Give 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 sake

  Of passing pleasures caught from thee above.

  For some will listen to thy trembling voice

  Since in its mournful music warbling low,

  Or in its measured chants, or bubbling joys

  They hear belovèd tunes of long ago.

  And some are but enamoured of thy grace

  And find it well to kneel to thee, and pray,

  Because there oft-times play upon thy face

  Smiles of an earthly maiden far away.

  Before the eyes of all thou hast the power

  To spread Elysium. Gorgeous memories

  Of days far distant in the past can flower

  Afresh beneath thy touch; yet not for these

  Thy mighty spells I love and hymn thy name;

  Nor yet because thou know’st the unseen road

  Which leads unto the awful halls of Fame,

  Where, midst the heapèd honours, thine the load

  Most 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 meet

  The bards of old and greet them as my peers.

  O impious thought! O I am mad to ask

  E’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 begin

  But that I know this learning must be bought

  With gold as well as toil, and gold I lack.

  What then? Dost bid me first seek out the Court

  Where 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 stirred

  With glorious fear and trembles in itself,

  When I look forth upon the vasty seas

  Of learning to be travelled o’er.

  I fain

  Would know the hills, the founts, the very trees,

  Where sang the Greeks of old. I would have plain

  Before my vision, heroes, poets, kings,

  Hear their clear accents; then observe where trod

  E’en mythic men; yea, next on Hermes’ wings

  Would mount Olympus and discern each god.

  All this to speed my suit with Poesy

  Meseems 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 undo

  My simple, ardent love! Throw early dews

  Of inspiration oft-times on my brow.

  Let them fall suddenly and darkly as thou choose,

  Uncertain, fitful as the thunder-drops

  Which sprinkle us then cease, to splash once more

  Rapidly round, still pausing for long stops,

  Not knowing if to vent their heavy store

  Upon the parching ground, or wait awhile

  Till hasty travelling winds bring increased worth.

  But as at last the concentrated pile

  Of seething vapours flings its might to earth

  In spurts of fire and rain, and to the ground

  Flashes its energy, yields up its very soul,

  So, midst long triumph-roars of awful sound,

  Flash thou thy soul to me at last, and roll

  Torrential streams of thought upon my brain,

  So give, yea give Thyself to me

  At last.

  We shall be happy, thou and I. In me

  Thou’lt find a jealous guardian of thy charms,

  A doting master, leaving all to be

  Ever with thee, ever in thine arms.

  Forget my youth, forget my ignorance,

  Spurn not my lowliness, and lack of friends

  Who might help on my progress and perchance

  Present me fearless at the throne where bends

  Full timidly my lonely being now.

  Friends’ service would be naught if thine own hand

  Uplifted me; do not thine eyes endow

  Far brighter wealth than books, and far more grand?

  Then come! Come with a rushing impulse swift,

  Or draw near slowly, gently, so it be

  Never 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 one

  Who deigns to stoop and be my life’s high meed?

  Yet if I would not for its jeering shun

  The world, no more would I parade its courts

  To change those jeers to applause by showing men

  Thy power. Publicity but poorly sorts

  My sacred joy, if thou should’st guide my pen.

  Loath would I be to show my exceeding bliss

  Even to closest friends. But all unseen,

  And far from men’s gaze would I feel thy kiss;

  No witness save the speechless star-lamps keen

  When thou stoop’st over me. No eye

  But Cynthia’s look on us, when through the night

  We sit alone, our faces pressing nigh,

  Quietly shining in her quiet light.

  WRITTEN IN A WOOD, SEPTEMBER 1910

  Full ninety autumns hath this ancient beech

  Helped with its myriad leafy tongues to swell

  The dirges of the deep-toned western gale,

  And ninety times hath all its power of speech

  Been stricken dumb, at sound of winter’s yell,

  Since Adonais, no more strong and hale,

  Might have rejoiced to linger here and teach

  His thoughts in sonnets to the listening dell;

  Or glide in fancy through those leafy grots

  And bird-pavilions hung with arras green,

  To hear the sonnets of its minstrel choir.

  Ah, ninety times again, when autumn rots

  Shall 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 shillings

  What can I say until myself I see it?

  But now it’s bought so dearly, so dearly

  so dearly

  O — 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 more

  So 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’s

  And played a game I know you’d like to play at:

  We shot an air-gun at a target on their door

  And 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 mixtures

  Of 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 Partridges

  To bring you; but I got you lots of empty cartridges.

  P.S.— ‘There was a boy so wondrous wise

  He tried to see his nose

  And turning inwards both his eyes

  He now in glasses goes: -’

  must now be changed to

  ‘There is a boy of Shrewsbury

  On whom all doctors dote,

  He lets them take hot iodine

  And 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 loom

  In sable majesty around, fringed fair

  With ermine-white of surf: to me they bear

  Watery memorials of His mystic doom

  Whose 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 tom

  Away from me the shady screens of ease

  And unreflecting, unself-scanning Peace

  Wherein I used to hide me from annoy

  In years which found and left me still a Boy.

  The First rose solemn, with a Voice of stem

  Monition; and it said: ‘Look back! and learn

  To number life by moments, not by years;

  Know that thy youth to its completion nears.

  This night the final minute hath been laid

  Upon thy nineteen Springs. Aye, be dismayed

  To see the Fourth Part of thy utmost Span

  Now spent! What then? Affrighted dost thou plan

  To crowd the Rest with Action, every whit?

  Ev’n so essay; but know thou canst not knit

  Thy web of hours so close as to regain

  E’en one lost stitch! For ever gaps remain!’

  Hereat it ceased; for now a second Shade

  Caught all my senses to’t; no sound it made;

 
No form it had; but quietly it drew

  Its tightening hand of Pain through every thew

  Of my frail body.... Pain? - Why Pain today?

  Sure, not a taste of what this tingling clay

  Shall 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 racks

  Numberless wretches all their life. Pain slacks

  Its 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 solicitude

  Have smiled upon me! Tongues that have been rude

  Are gentle now.... Yet still, how do I miss

  Thine eyes, thy voice, my Mother! Oft I kiss

  Thy portrait, and I clutch thy letter dear

  As if it were thy hand.

  At this, fresh cheer

  Comes over me; and now upon my couch

  Of ruby velvet, o’er the fire I crouch

  In full content. I only pause from reading

  To scribble these few lines; or, scarcely heeding

  The dismal damp abroad, to mock the rain

  Shooting its sleety balls at me in vain.

  - Ho, thus, methinks, hereafter, when the weak

  Creations of a Mental Mist shall seek

  To quench my soul, I’ll thwart them by the shield

  Of crystal Hope!

  For there have been revealed

  Heart-secrets since the coming of this day,

  Making me thankful for its thorn-paved way.

  Among them this: ‘No joy is comparable

  Unto the Melting - soft and gradual -

  Of Torture’s needles in the flesh. To sail

  Smoothly from out the abysmal anguish-jail

  And tread the placid plains of normal ease

  Is sweeter far, I deem, than all the glees

  Which we may catch by mounting higher still

  Into the dangerous air where actual Bliss doth thrill.’

  SUPPOSED CONFESSIONS OF A SECONDRATE SENSITIVE MIND IN DEJECTION

  Time was when I have loved the bards whose strains

  Saddened the heart, and wrought a heavy mood;

  Aye, and my spirit felt a joy to brood

  O’er melodies which told of ancient pains.

  Lovely the tones when poet’s lips have moved

  For very mournfulness.... O fair the sight

  (As now we see it) of a Spirit bright

  Bowed on a southern strand; his work approved

  Of none; his name despised or else unknown.

  O — then, how firm and close was his embrace

  Unto Despondency! - Her shadowed face,