Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536212" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Terre</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,<br>Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.<br>Both arms have mutinied against me -- brutes.<br>My fingers fidget like ten idle brats. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I tried to peg out soldierly -- no use!<br>One dies of war like any old disease.<br>This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.<br>I have my medals? -- Discs to make eyes close.<br>My glorious ribbons? -- Ripped from my own back<br>In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0">A short life and a merry one, my brick!<br>We used to say we'd hate to live dead old, --<br>Yet now . . . I'd willingly be puffy, bald,<br>And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys<br>At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose<br>Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,<br>Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.<br>Well, that's what I learnt, -- that, and making money.<br>Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?<br>Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year<br>To help myself to nothing more than air!<br>One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?<br>Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,<br>And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.<br>My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!<br>When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.<br>Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought<br>How well I might have swept his floors for ever,<br>I'd ask no night off when the bustle's over,<br>Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced<br>Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,<br>Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,<br>Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?<br>I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,<br>Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">O Life, Life, let me breathe, -- a dug-out rat!<br>Not worse than ours the existences rats lead --<br>Nosing along at night down some safe vat,<br>They find a shell-proof home before they rot.<br>Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,<br>Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,<br>And subdivide, and never come to death,<br>Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.<br>&quot;I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone.&quot;<br>Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned;<br>The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.<br>&quot;Pushing up daisies,&quot; is their creed, you know.<br>To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,<br>For all the usefulness there is in soap.<br>D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?<br>Some day, no doubt, if . . .<br>  Friend, be very sure<br>I shall be better off with plants that share<br>More peaceably the meadow and the shower.<br>Soft rains will touch me, -- as they could touch once,<br>And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.<br>Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;<br>Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.<br>Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.<br>Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,<br>But here the thing's best left at home with friends. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,<br>To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased<br>On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned<br>To do without what blood remained these wounds.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen">Wilfred Owen</a><div class=q>
<img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share">
<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536212" data-title="A Terre de Wilfred Owen" data-description="(Being the philosophy of many Soldiers.) 


Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me -- brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats. 

I tried to peg out..."></div>
</div>
</div>