*Portrait of Wilfred Owen.jpg
*Military Cross.jpg
"Blood's dirt!" he laughed
damn your iodine
great pocks and scabs
hoarse oaths
leap of purple spurted
limped on, blood-shod
mud in ruck on ruck
scorching cautery
some profound dull tunnell
stained stones kissed
he's lost his colour very far from here poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry
hear with hunger of blood, blue with all malice, like a madman's flash
stray blood came creeping from the intrusive lead, like ants on track
the flickering gunnery rumbles, like a dull rumour of some other war
who feels upon a hand, but late love-warm, a hardness of indifference
alive, he is not vital ovemuch ; dying, not mortal overmuch
now begin famines of thought and feeling love's wine's thin
when the whiteness of the spectral moon had terrorized the creatures of the wold
urged by earnest violins and drunk their mellow sorrows
the hilarious hideous awful falseness of set-smiling corpses
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