Poems (Wilfred Owen)

<h2> Apologia pro Poemate Meo </h2> <p>I, too, saw God through mud&mdash;<br/> The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.<br/> War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,<br/> And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.<br/> <br/> Merry it was to laugh there&mdash;<br/> Where death becomes absurd and life absurder.<br/> For power was on us as we slashed bones bare<br/> Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder.<br/> <br/> I, too, have dropped off fear&mdash;<br/> Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon,<br/> And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear<br/> Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn;<br/> <br/> And witnessed exultation&mdash;<br/> Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl,<br/> Shine and lift up with passion of oblation,<br/> Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.<br/> <br/> I have made fellowships&mdash;<br/> Untold of happy lovers in old song.<br/> For love is not the binding of fair lips<br/> With the soft silk of eyes that look and long,<br/> <br/> By Joy, whose ribbon slips,&mdash;<br/> But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong;<br/> Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips;<br/> Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong.<br/> <br/> I have perceived much beauty<br/> In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;<br/> Heard music in the silentness of duty;<br/> Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.<br/> <br/> Nevertheless, except you share<br/> With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,<br/> Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,<br/> And heaven but as the highway for a shell,<br/> <br/> You shall not hear their mirth:<br/> You shall not come to think them well content<br/> By any jest of mine. These men are worth<br/> Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.<br/></p> <p>November 1917.<br/></p> <p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></SPAN></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />