Poems (Wilfred Owen)

<h2> Arms and the Boy </h2> <p>Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade<br/> How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;<br/> Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;<br/> And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh.<br/> <br/> Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads<br/> Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads.<br/> Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth,<br/> Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death.<br/> <br/> For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple.<br/> There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple;<br/> And God will grow no talons at his heels,<br/> Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls.<br/></p> <p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></SPAN></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />