I, too, saw God through mud-- <br />The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. <br />War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, <br />And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. <br /> <br />Merry it was to laugh there-- <br />Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. <br />For power was on us as we slashed bones bare <br />Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. <br /> <br />I, too, have dropped off fear-- <br />Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, <br />And sailed my spirit surging, light and clear, <br />Past the entanglement where hopes lie strewn; <br /> <br />And witnessed exhultation-- <br />Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, <br />Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, <br />Seraphic for an hour, though they were foul. <br /> <br />I have made fellowships-- <br />Untold of happy lovers in old song. <br />For love is not the binding of fair lips <br />With the soft silk of eyes that look and long. <br /> <br />By joy, whose ribbon slips,-- <br />But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; <br />Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; <br />Knit in the welding of the rifle-thong. <br /> <br />I have perceived much beauty <br />In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; <br />Heard music in the silentness of duty; <br />Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. <br /> <br />Nevertheless, except you share <br />With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, <br />Whose world is but a trembling of a flare <br />And heaven but a highway for a shell, <br /> <br />You shall not hear their mirth: <br />You shall not come to think them well content <br />By any jest of mine. These men are worth <br />Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/apologia-pro-poemate-meo/
