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 train-loads? |
A few, a few, too few for drums and
yells, |
May creep back, silent, to village
wells |
Up half-known roads.
|
Wilfred Owen
| Classic Poems |
|
[ Anthem for Doomed Youth ] [ Dulce et Decorum est ] [ Exposure ] [ Strange Meeting ] [ The Send-Off ] [ The Sentry ] |