Wilfred Owen

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned read more

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.

A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.

Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's read more

Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away.