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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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 army Attacks 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 glozed With
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
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder Why speak they not of
comrades that went under？
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
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。〃
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