THE POET IN PAIN by WILFRED OWEN
Some men sing songs of Pain and scarcely guess Their import, for they never knew her stress. And there be other souls that ever lie Begnawed by seven devils, silent. Aye, Whose hearts have wept out blood, who not once spake Of tears. If therefore my remorseless ache Be needful to proof-test upon my flesh The thoughts I think, and in words bleeding-fresh Teach me for speechless sufferers to plain, I would not quench it. Rather be my part To write of health with shaking hands, bone-pale, Of pleasure, having hell in every vein, Than chant of care from out a careless heart, To music of the world's eternal wail.
|Author||Owen, Wilfred (1893-1918)|
|Title||The Poet In Pain|
|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.|
|Digital repository||The First World War Poetry Digital Archive|