| It seemed that out of battle I escaped |
| Down some profound dull tunnel, long
since scooped |
| Through granites which titanic wars had
groined. |
| Yet also there encumbered sleepers
groaned, |
| Too fast in thought or death to be
bestirred. |
| Then, as I probed them, one sprang up,
and stared |
| With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, |
| Lifting distressful hands as if to
bless. |
| And by his smile, I knew that sullen
hall, |
| By his dead smile I knew we stood in
Hell. |
| With a thousand pains that vision’s
face was grained; |
| Yet no blood reached there from the
upper ground, |
| And no guns thumped, or down the flues
made moan. |
| "Strange friend," I said, "here is no
cause to mourn." |
| "None", said the other, "save the
undone years, |
| The hopelessness. Whatever hope is
yours, |
| Was my life also; I went hunting wild |
| After the wildest beauty in the world, |
| Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided
hair, |
| But mocks the steady running of the
hour, |
| And if it grieves, grieves richlier
than here. |
| For by my glee might many men have
laughed, |
| And of my weeping something had been
left, |
| Which must die now. I mean the truth
untold, |
| The pity of war, the pity war
distilled. |
| Now men will go content with what we
spoiled. |
| Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be
spilled. |
| They will be swift with swiftness of
the tigress, |
| None will break ranks, though nations
trek from progress. |
| Courage was mine, and I had mystery, |
| Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery; |
| To miss the march of this retreating
world |
| Into vain citadels that are not walled. |
| Then, when much blood had clogged their
chariot-wheels |
| I would go up and wash them from sweet
wells, |
| Even with truths that lie too deep for
taint. |
| I would have poured my spirit without
stint |
| But not through wounds; not on the cess
of war. |
| Foreheads of men have bled where no
wounds were. |
| I am the enemy you killed, my friend. |
| I knew you in this dark; for so you
frowned |
| Yesterday through me as you jabbed and
killed. |
| I parried; but my hands were loath and
cold. |
Let us sleep now. . . ."
|
| Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
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