SPRING OFFENSIVE by WILFRED OWEN
Halted against the shade of a last hill They fed, and eased of pack-loads, were at ease; And leaning on the nearest chest or knees Carelessly slept.
But many there stood still
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 swirled By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge; And though the summer oozed into their veins Like an injected drug for their bodies' pains, Sharp on their souls hung the imminent ridge of grass, Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder the warm field And the far valley behind, where buttercups Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up; When even the little brambles would not yield But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing arms. They breathe like trees unstirred.
Till like a cold gust thrills the little word At which each body and its soul begird And tighten them for battle. No alarms Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste,--- Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced 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 together Over an open stretch of herb and heather Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned With fury against them; earth set sudden cups In thousands for their blood; and the green slope Chasmed and deepened sheer to infinite space.
Of them who running on that last high place Breasted the surf of bullets, or went up 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' brink 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 flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames--- And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder--- Why speak not they of comrades that went under?
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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||Halted against the shade of a last hill|
|Publication source||The Complete Poems and Fragments of Wilfred Owen|
|Publication editor||Stallworthy, Jon|
|Digital repository||The First World War Poetry Digital Archive|