Thursday, August 11, 2005

Poem of the Week

Okay...a little delayed this week, courtesy of The Big Septic Caper.

Whenever I hear stories of young men and women heading off for Iraq, this is the poem which never fails to come to mind. I think no matter what your feelings may be on the wisdom of the current conflict, and whether or not you agree with it, you have to feel for those young people over there who are fighting and dying for something much bigger than they.

Wilfred Owens served in World War I, so he knew from where he spoke. Unfortunately for the world, he was killed a couple of hours before the Armistice was declared, robbing us of one of the most eloquent of the war poets.

Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed
And lined the train with faces grimly gay
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men's are, dead.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up they went.
They were not ours,
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.
Shall they return to beatings of great bells
In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.


Blogger 'Lema said...

OOoooooo I wuv Wilfred Owen. How come all the brilliant people get killed right before they were saved?


8:16 PM  
Blogger Jensgalore said...

I'll have to get the husband to read that.

5:30 PM  

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