spring offensive wilfred owen
Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.
Both arms have mutinied against me,—brutes. My fingers fidget like ten idle brats. I tried to peg out soldierly,—no use! One dies of war like any old disease. This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. I have my medals?
My glorious ribbons? A short life and a merry one, my buck!
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Buffers catch from boys At least the jokes hurled at them. Your fifty years ahead seem none too many? For one year To help myself to nothing more than air! One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long? Spring wind would work its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
Must I be his load? O Life, Wilcred, let me breathe,—a dug-out rat! Not worse than ours the lives rats lead— Nosing along at night down some spring offensive wilfred owen rut, They find a shell-proof home before they rot. Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death. Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. Shelley would be stunned: The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, For all the usefulness there is in soap.
Some day, no doubt, if … Friend, be very sure I shall be better off with plants that share More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
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Soft rains will touch me,— as they could touch once, And nothing but the sun shall make me ware. Your guns may crash around me. Share this:.]
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