CONSCIOUS by WILFRED OWEN
His fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed. His eyes come open with a pull of will, Helped by the yellow mayflowers by his head. The blind-cord drawls across the window-sill... What a smooth floor the ward has! What a rug! Who is that talking somewhere out of sight? Three flies are creeping round the shiny jug... 'Nurse! Doctor!'---'Yes, all right, all right.'
But sudden evening blurs and fogs the air. There seems no time to want a drink of water. Nurse looks so far away. And here and there Music and roses burst through crimson slaughter. He can't remember where he saw blue sky... The trench is narrower. Cold, he's cold; yet hot--- And there's no light to see the voices by... There is no time to ask...he knows not what.
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|Author||Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918)|
|Copyright||The Estate of Wilfred Owen. The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen edited by Jon Stallworthy first published by Chatto Windus, 1983. Preliminaries, introductory, editorial matter, manuscripts and fragments omitted.|
|First line||His fingers wake, and flutter; up the bed.|
|Publication source||The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen|
|Publication editor||Stallworthy, Jon|
|Digital repository||The First World War Poetry Digital Archive|