Wilfred Owen
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed
by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and
wooer
Seems shame to their love
pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure.
When I behold eyes blinded
in my stead!
Trembles not exquisite like
limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to
care;
Till the fierce love they bear
Cramps them in death’s
extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,—
Though even as wind
murmuring through
raftered loft, —
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now
hear,
Now earth has stopped their
piteous mouths that
coughed.
Nor large, nor full like
hearts made great with
shot;
And though your hand be
pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame
and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for
you may touch them not.
—1918