Maxioms by Wilfred Owen
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan read more
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons. - Anthem for Doomed Youth.
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even read more
Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.
