He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, -- In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands, All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face, For it was younger than his youth, last year. Now he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race, And leap of purple spurted from his thigh. One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg, After the matches carried shoulder-high. It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . . Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts, He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years. Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul. Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole. To-night he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter,
Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven:
It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.
He was born in 1893 and died in 1918. Owen served as a soldier on the Western Front. His poetry often employs vivid, realistic imagery and innovates with pararhyme and assonance to convey the trauma of combat. Themes of pity, disillusionment, and the waste of young life pervade his work. Notable poems include Dulce et Decorum Est and Anthem for Doomed Youth. He is regarded as one of the most significant war poets in English literature. His verse powerfully shaped public memory of the conflict. Most of his poetry was published posthumously, edited by his friend Siegfried Sassoon. Owen was killed in action just one week before the Armistice of 1918.
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