Collected Poems
| dc.contributor | Oxford Text Archive |
| dc.contributor.author | Owen, Wilfred, 1893-1918 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-06-14 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-21T09:48:46Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T09:48:46Z |
| dc.date.created | 1920 |
| dc.identifier | ota:3020 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/3020 |
| dc.description.abstract | Resource deposited with the Oxford Text Archive. |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.format.mimetype | text/xml |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
| dc.relation.replaces | https://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/2216 |
| dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License |
| dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ |
| dc.rights.label | PUB |
| dc.subject.lcsh | Poems -- Great Britain -- 20th century |
| dc.title | Collected Poems |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 775292 |
| files.count | 5 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1900-1999 |
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War Poems Strange Meeting It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared With piteous recognition in fixed eyes, Lifting distressful hands as if to bless. And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained; Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground, And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan. “Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.” “None,” said that other, “save the undone years, The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours, Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world, Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair, But mocks the steady running of the hour, And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here. For of my glee . . .
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