Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

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 for 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 by 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 webbing 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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