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poems(诗集)-第2部分

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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 
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