Poems (Wilfred Owen)

<h2> Exposure </h2> <p>I<br/> <br/> Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . .<br/> Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .<br/> Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . .<br/> Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,<br/> But nothing happens.<br/> <br/> Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.<br/> Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.<br/> Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles,<br/> Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war.<br/> What are we doing here?<br/> <br/> The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . .<br/> We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy.<br/> Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army<br/> Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray,<br/> But nothing happens.<br/> <br/> Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence.<br/> Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow,<br/> With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew,<br/> We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance,<br/> But nothing happens.<br/></p> <p>II<br/> <br/> Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces&mdash;<br/> We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed,<br/> Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed,<br/> Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses.<br/> Is it that we are dying?<br/> <br/> Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed<br/> With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there;<br/> For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs;<br/> Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed&mdash;<br/> We turn back to our dying.<br/> <br/> Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn;<br/> Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit.<br/> For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid;<br/> Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born,<br/> For love of God seems dying.<br/> <br/> To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us,<br/> Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp.<br/> The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp,<br/> Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice,<br/> But nothing happens.<br/></p> <p><SPAN name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"></SPAN></p> <div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />