| We’d found an old Boche dug-out, and he
knew, |
| And gave us hell, for shell on frantic
shell |
| Hammered on top, but never quite burst
through. |
| Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of
slime |
| Kept slush waist-high that, rising hour
by hour, |
| Choked up the steps too thick with clay
to climb. |
| What murk of air remained stank old,
and sour |
| With fumes of whiz-bangs, and the smell
of men |
| Who’d lived there years, and left their
curse in the den, |
| If not their corpses. . . . |
| There we herded from the blast |
| Of whiz-bangs, but one found our door
at last,― |
| Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the
candles. |
| And thud! flump! thud! down the steep
steps came thumping |
| And splashing in the flood, deluging
muck― |
| The sentry’s body; then, his rifle,
handles |
| Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on
ruck. |
| We dredged him up, for killed, until he
whined |
| "O sir, my eyes―I’m
blind―I’m blind, I’m blind!” |
| Coaxing, I held a flame against his
lids |
| And said if he could see the least
blurred light |
| He was not blind; in time he’d get all
right. |
| "I can’t, he sobbed. Eyeballs,
huge-bulged like squids’, |
| Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him
there |
| In posting next for duty, and sending a
scout |
| To beg a stretcher somewhere, and
floundering about |
| To other posts under the shrieking air. |
| •
•
•
•
• |
| Those other wretches, how they bled and
spewed, |
| And one who would have drowned himself
for good,― |
| I try not to remember these things now. |
| Let dread hark back for one word only:
how |
| Half listening to that sentry’s moans
and jumps, |
| And the wild chattering of his broken
teeth, |
| Renewed most horribly whenever crumps |
| Pummelled the roof and slogged the air
beneath― |
| Through the dense din, I say, we heard
him shout |
"I see your lights!" but ours had long
died out.
|
| Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
| |
|
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