poems(诗集)-第2节
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Greater Love
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！
Your slender attitude 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。
Heart； you were never hot； 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。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Apologia pro Poemate Meo
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 lay strewn；
And witnessed exultation 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 the trembling of a flare； And heaven but as the
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。
November 1917。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
The Show
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death； As
unremembering how I rose or why； And saw a sad land； weak with sweats
of dearth； Gray； cratered like the moon with hollow woe； And fitted with
great pocks and scabs of plaques。
Across its beard； that horror of harsh wire； There moved thin
caterpillars； slowly uncoiled。 It seemed they pushed themselves to be as
plugs Of ditches； where they writhed and shrivelled； killed。
By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round myriad warts
that might be little hills。
From gloom's last dregs these long…strung creatures crept； And
vanished out of dawn down hidden holes。
（And smell came up from those foul openings As out of mouths； or
deep wounds deepening。）
On dithering feet upgathered； more and more； Brown strings towards
strings of gray； with bristling spines； All migrants from green fields； intent
on mire。
Those that were gray； of more abundant spawns； Ramped on the rest
and ate them and were eaten。
I saw their bitten backs curve； loop； and straighten； I watched those
agonies curl； lift； and flatten。
Whereat； in terror what that sight might mean； I reeled and shivered
earthward like a feather。
And Death fell with me； like a deepening moan。 And He； picking a
manner of worm； which half had hid Its bruises in the earth； but crawled
no further； Showed me its feet； the feet of many men； And the fresh…
severed head of it； my head。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Mental Cases
Who are these？ Why sit they here in twilight？ Wherefore rock they；
purgatorial shadows； Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish；
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked？ Stroke on stroke of pain；
but what slow panic； Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets？
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms Misery swelters。 Surely
we have perished Sleeping； and walk hell； but who these hellish？
These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished。 Memory
fingers in their hair of murders； Multitudinous murders they once
witnessed。 Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander； Treading blood
from lungs that had loved laughter。 Always they must see these things and
hear them； Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles； Carnage
incomparable and human squander Rucked too thick for these men's
extrication。
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains；
because on their sense Sunlight seems a bloodsmear； night comes blood…
black； Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh Thus their
heads wear this hilarious； hideous； Awful falseness of set…smiling corpses。
Thus their hands are plucking at each other； Picking at the rope…knouts
of their scourging； Snatching after us who smote them； brother； Pawing us
who dealt them war and madness。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Parable of the Old Men and the
Young
So Abram rose； and clave the wood； and went； And took the fire with
him； and a knife。 And as they sojourned both of them together； Isaac the
first…born spake and said； My Father； Behold the preparations； fire and
iron； But where the lamb for this burnt…offering？ Then Abram bound the
youth with belts and straps； And builded parapets and trenches there； And
stretched forth the knife to slay his son。 When lo！ an angel called him out
of heaven； Saying； Lay not thy hand upon the lad； Neither do anything to
him。 Behold； A ram caught in a thicket by its horns； Offer the Ram of
Pride instead of him。 But the old man would not so； but slew his son。 。 。 。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Arms and the Boy
Let the boy try along this bayonet…blade How cold steel is； and keen
with hunger of blood； Blue with all malice； like a madman's flash； And
thinly drawn with famishing for flesh。
Lend him to stroke these blind； blunt bullet…heads Which long to
muzzle in the hearts of lads。 Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth；
Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death。
For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple。 There lurk no claws
behind his fingers supple； And God will grow no talons at his heels； Nor
antlers through the thickness of his curls。
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing…bells for these who die as cattle？ Only the monstrous
anger of the guns。 Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out
their hasty orisons。 No mockeries for them； no prayers nor bells； Nor any
voice of mourning save the choirs； The shrill； demented choirs of
wailing shells； And bugles calling for them from sad shires。
What candles may be held to speed them all？ Not in the hands of boys；
but in
