| Down the close, darkening lanes they
sang their way |
| To the siding-shed, |
And lined the train with faces grimly
gay.
|
| Their breasts were stuck all white with
wreath and spray |
As men’s are, dead.
|
| Dull porters watched them, and a casual
tramp |
| Stood staring hard, |
| Sorry to miss them from the upland
camp. |
| Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a
lamp |
Winked to the guard.
|
| So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up,
they went. |
| They were not ours: |
We never heard to which front these
were sent.
|
| Nor there if they yet mock what women
meant |
Who gave them flowers.
|
| Shall they return to beatings of great
bells |
| In wild train-loads? |
| A few, a few, too few for drums and
yells, |
| May creep back, silent, to village
wells |
Up half-known roads.
|
| Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
[ Anthem for Doomed Youth ] [ Dulce et Decorum est ] [ Exposure ] [ Strange Meeting ] [ The Send-Off ] [ The Sentry ] |
