按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled。
Then； when much blood had clogged their chariot…wheels I 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 stint But 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
frowned Yesterday 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
5
… Page 6…
Poems by Wilfred Owen
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 world Into old citadels that are not walled。 Let us
lie out and hold the open truth。 Then when their blood hath clogged the
chariot wheels We will go up and wash them from deep wells。 What
though we sink from men as pitchers falling Many shall raise us up to be
their filling Even from wells we sunk too deep for war And filled by brows
that bled where no wounds were。
*Alternative line …
Even as One who bled where no wounds were。
6
… Page 7…
Poems by Wilfred Owen
Greater Love
Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English
dead。 Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems 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 there Where 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 trail Your
cross through flame and hail： Weep； you may weep； for you may touch
them not。
7
… Page 8…
Poems by Wilfred Owen
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。
8
… Page 9…
Poems by Wilfred Owen
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
plugs Of ditches； where they writhed and shrivelled； killed。
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round 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 openings As 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 hid Its 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。
9
… Page 10…
Poems by Wilfred Owen
Mental Cases