1 min read
Слушать(AI)The Kind Ghosts
She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost
Out of the stillness of her palace wall,
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms.
She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,
Not marvelling why her roses never
Nor what red mouths were torn to make their blooms.
The shades keep down which well might roam her hall.
Quiet their blood lies in her crimson
And she is not afraid of their footfall.
They move not from her tapestries, their pall,
Nor pace her terraces, their hecatombs,
Lest aught she be disturbed, or grieved at all.
Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First W
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
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,
The Chances
I mind as 'ow the night afore that Us five got talking, — we was in the know,Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it Ah well, says Jimmy, — an' 'e's see...
The Parable Of The Old Man 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,
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 no...
