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Spring Offensive [unfinished]

Halted against the shade of a last hill,

They fed, and lying easy, were at

And, finding comfortable chests and knees,

Carelessly slept.

But many there stood

To face the stark blank sky beyond the ridge,

Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.

Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass

By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,

For though the summer oozed into their

Like an injected drug for their bodies' pains,

Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,

Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.

Hour after hour they ponder the warm field, -And the far valley behind, where the

Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,

Where even the little brambles would not

But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands.[          ] they breathe like trees unstirred.

Till like a cold gust thrills the little

At which each body and its soul

And tighten them for battle.

No

Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste, -Only a lift and flare of eyes that

The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.

O larger shone that smile against the sun, -Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.

So, soon they topped the hill, and raced

Over an open stretch of herb and

Exposed.

And instantly the whole sky

With fury against them; earth set sudden

In thousands for their blood; and the green

Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.

Of them who running on that last high

Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went

On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,

Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,

Some say God caught them even before they fell.

But what say such as from existence'

Ventured but drave too swift to sink,

The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,

And there out-fiending all its fiends and

With superhuman inhumanities,

Long-famous glories, immemorial shames -And crawling slowly back, have by

Regained cool peaceful air in wonder -Why speak not they of comrades that went under?

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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…
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