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Collected Poems

 
dc.contributor Oxford Text Archive
dc.contributor.author Owen, Wilfred, 1893-1918
dc.date.accessioned 2018-06-14
dc.date.accessioned 2019-07-04T10:30:44Z
dc.date.available 2019-07-04T10:30:44Z
dc.date.created 1920
dc.identifier ota:3020
dc.identifier.citation http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/3020
dc.identifier.uri http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/3020
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 http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/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 775596
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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