Complete Works of Wilfred Owen Page 4
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,