Wilfred Owen

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.

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.

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.

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.