HumanitiesWeb.org - Editor's Selection of Poems (Apologia Pro Poemate Meo) by Wilfred Owen
HumanitiesWeb HumanitiesWeb
WelcomeHistoryLiteratureArtMusicPhilosophyResourcesHelp
Periods Alphabetically Nationality Topics Themes Genres Glossary
pixel

Owen
Index
Biography
Selected Works
Quotations
According To...
Recordings
Suggested Reading
Chronology
Related Materials

Search

Get Your Degree!

Find schools and get information on the program that’s right for you.

Powered by Campus Explorer

& etc
FEEDBACK

(C)1998-2012
All Rights Reserved.

Site last updated
28 October, 2012
Real Time Analytics

Editor's Selection of Poems
Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

by Wilfred Owen

I, too, saw God through mud-- 
The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. 
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, 
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. 
Merry it was to laugh there-- 
Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. 
For power was on us as we slashed bones bare 
Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. 

I, too, have dropped off fear-- 
Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, 
And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear, 
Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn; 

And witnessed exhultation-- 
Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, 
Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, 
Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul. 

I have made fellowships-- 
Untold of happy lovers in old song. 
For love is not the binding of fair lips 
With the soft silk of eyes that look and long. 

By joy, whose ribbon slips,-- 
But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; 
Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; 
Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. 

I have perceived much beauty 
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; 
Heard music in the silentness of duty; 
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. 

Nevertheless, except you share 
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, 
Whose world is but a trembling of a flare 
And heaven but a highway for a shell, 

You shall not hear their mirth: 
You shall not come to think them well content 
By any jest of mine. These men are worth 
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment. 
Personae

Terms Defined

Referenced Works