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| Wilfred OwenTo Eros In that I loved you, love, I worshipped you; In that I worshipped well, I sacrificed. All of most worth I bound and burnt and slew: The innocent small things, fair friends and Christ. I slew all falser loves, I slew all true, For truth is the prime lie men tell a boy. Glory I cast away as bridegrooms do Their splendid garments in their haste of joy. But when I fell and held your sandalled feet You laughed; you loosed away my lips; you rose. I heard the music of your wings' retreat And watched you, far-flown, flush the Olympian snows Beyond my hoping. Starkly I returned To stare upon the ash of all I burned. >>My grateful thanks to Max for this, and my apologies for losing it...<< 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 are men’s, 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 the beatings of great bells In wild train-loads? A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to still village wells Up half-known roads. Anthem for Doomed Youth What passing-bells for those 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 now 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 good-byes. The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness the patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. | |||||||||
