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Mental Cases
Who are these？ Why sit they here in twilight？ Wherefore rock they；
purgatorial shadows； Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish；
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked？ Stroke on stroke of pain；
but what slow panic； Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets？
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms Misery swelters。 Surely
we have perished Sleeping； and walk hell； but who these hellish？
These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished。 Memory
fingers in their hair of murders； Multitudinous murders they once
witnessed。 Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander； Treading blood
from lungs that had loved laughter。 Always they must see these things and
hear them； Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles； Carnage
incomparable and human squander Rucked too thick for these men's
extrication。
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains；
because on their sense Sunlight seems a bloodsmear； night comes blood…
black； Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh Thus their
heads wear this hilarious； hideous； Awful falseness of set…smiling corpses。
Thus their hands are plucking at each other； Picking at the rope…knouts
of their scourging； Snatching after us who smote them； brother； Pawing us
who dealt them war and madness。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Parable of the Old Men and the
Young
So Abram rose； and clave the wood； and went； And took the fire with
him； and a knife。 And as they sojourned both of them together； Isaac the
first…born spake and said； My Father； Behold the preparations； fire and
iron； But where the lamb for this burnt…offering？ Then Abram bound the
youth with belts and straps； And builded parapets and trenches there； And
stretched forth the knife to slay his son。 When lo！ an angel called him out
of heaven； Saying； Lay not thy hand upon the lad； Neither do anything to
him。 Behold； A ram caught in a thicket by its horns； Offer the Ram of
Pride instead of him。 But the old man would not so； but slew his son。 。 。 。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Arms and the Boy
Let the boy try along this bayonet…blade How cold steel is； and keen
with hunger of blood； Blue with all malice； like a madman's flash； And
thinly drawn with famishing for flesh。
Lend him to stroke these blind； blunt bullet…heads Which long to
muzzle in the hearts of lads。 Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth；
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death。
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple。 There lurk no claws
behind his fingers supple； And God will grow no talons at his heels； Nor
antlers through the thickness of his curls。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing…bells for these who die as cattle？ Only the monstrous
anger of the guns。 Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out
their hasty orisons。 No mockeries for them； no prayers nor bells； Nor any
voice of mourning save the choirs； The shrill； demented choirs of
wailing shells； And bugles calling for them from sad shires。
What candles may be held to speed them all？ Not in the hands of boys；
but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes。 The pallor of
girls' brows shall be their pall； Their flowers the tenderness of patient
minds； And each slow dusk a drawing…down of blinds。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Send…off
Down the close； darkening lanes they sang their way To the siding…
shed； And lined the train with faces grimly gay。
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray As men's are；
dead。
Dull porters watched them； and a casual tramp Stood staring hard；
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp。 Then； unmoved； signals nodded；
and a lamp Winked to the guard。
So secretly； like wrongs hushed…up； they went。 They were not ours： We
never heard to which front these were sent。
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant Who gave them
flowers。
Shall they return to beatings of great bells In wild trainloads？ A few； a
few； too few for drums and yells； May creep back； silent； to still village
wells Up half…known roads。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Insensibility
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run
cold。 Whom no compassion fleers Or makes their feet Sore on the alleys
cobbled with their brothers。 The front line withers； But they are troops
who fade； not flowers For poets' tearful fooling： Men； gaps for filling
Losses who might have fought Longer； but no one bothers。
II
And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves。 Dullness
best solves The tease and doubt of shelling； And Chance's strange
arithmetic Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling。 They keep
no check on Armies' decimation。
III
Happy are these who lose imagination： They have enough to carry
with ammunition。 Their spirit drags no pack。 Their old wounds save with
cold can not more ache。 Having seen all things red； Their eyes are rid Of
the hurt of the colour of blood for ever。 And terror's first constriction over；
Their hearts remain small drawn。 Their senses in some scorching cautery
of battle Now long since ironed； Can laugh among the dying；
unconcerned。
IV
Happy the soldier home； with not a notion How somewhere； every
dawn； some men attack； And many sighs are drained。 Happy the lad whose
mind was never trained： His days are worth forgett