Wilfred Owen: Poems


His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.

His eyes come open with a pull of will,

Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.

A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .

How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!

And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?

Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?

"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."

But sudden dusk bewilders all the air—

There seems no time to want a drink of water.

Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere

Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.

Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:

And there's no light to see the voices by—

No time to dream, and ask—he knows not what.