Tag: Wilfred Owen

Move him into the sun–  Gently its touch awoke him once,  At home, whispering of fields unsown.  Always it awoke him, even in France,  Until this morning and this snow.

Seeing we never found gay fairyland (Though still we crouched by bluebells moon by moon) And missed the tide of Lethe; yet are soon For that new bridge that leaves

War broke: and now the Winter of the world With perishing great darkness closes in. The foul tornado, centred at Berlin, Is over all the width of Europe whirled, Rending

 Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,  Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,  Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,  And towards our distant rest began

It seemed that out of battle I escapedDown some profound dull tunnel, long since scoopedThrough granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,Too fast in thought