Red lips are not so red <br /> As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. <br />Kindness of wooed and wooer <br />Seems shame to their love pure. <br />O Love, your eyes lose lure <br /> When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! <br /> <br />Your slender attitude <br /> Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, <br />Rolling and rolling there <br />Where God seems not to care; <br />Till the fierce Love they bear <br /> Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. <br /> <br />Your voice sings not so soft, -- <br /> Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, -- <br />Your dear voice is not dear, <br />Gentle, and evening clear, <br />As theirs whom none now hear <br /> Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. <br /> <br />Heart, you were never hot, <br /> Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; <br />And though your hand be pale, <br />Paler are all which trail <br />Your cross through flame and hail: <br /> Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.<br /><br />Wilfred Owen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/red-lips-are-not-so-red/
