Disabled
He
sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And
shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices
of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices
of play and pleasures after day,
Till
gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About
this time Town used to swing so gay
When
glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
And
girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim —
In
the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now
he will never feel again how slim
Girls’
waists are, or how warm their subtle hands;
All
of them touch him like some queer disease.
There
was an artist silly for his face,
For
it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now,
he is old; his back will never brace;
He’s
lost his colour very far from here,
Poured
it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And
half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And
leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One
time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It
was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He
thought he’d better join. — He wonders why.
Someone
had said he’d look a god in kilts,
That’s
why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg;
Aye,
that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He
asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling
they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans
he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For
daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And
care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit
de corps*;
and hints for young recruits.
And
soon he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some
cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only
a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked
him;
and then inquired about his soul.
Now,
he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And
do what things the rules consider wise,
And
take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight
he noticed how the women’s eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How
cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And
put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Wilfred Owen
Esprit
de corps*: A
feeling of pride in the group to which one belongs (French)