Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned <br />Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small) <br />And (large) Vast Booty from our Latest Haul. <br />Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned; <br />For, said the paper, "When this war is done <br />The men's first instinct will be making homes. <br />Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes, <br />It being certain war has just begun. <br />Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, -- <br />The sons we offered might regret they died <br />If we got nothing lasting in their stead. <br />We must be solidly indemnified. <br />Though all be worthy Victory which all bought, <br />We rulers sitting in this ancient spot <br />Would wrong our very selves if we forgot <br />The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, <br />Who kept this nation in integrity." <br />Nation? -- The half-limbed readers did not chafe <br />But smiled at one another curiously <br />Like secret men who know their secret safe. <br />This is the thing they know and never speak, <br />That England one by one had fled to France <br />(Not many elsewhere now save under France). <br />Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, <br />And people in whose voice real feeling rings <br />Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things. <br /> <br />23rd September 1918.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/smile-smile-smile-2/
