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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=536286" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Wild with all Regrets</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(Another version of &quot;A Terre&quot;.) </div><div style="margin:10px 0"> To Siegfried Sassoon </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>My arms have mutinied against me -- brutes!<br>My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,<br>My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.<br>Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.<br>I can't read. There: it's no use. Take your book.<br>A short life and a merry one, my buck!<br>We said we'd hate to grow dead old. But now,<br>Not to live old seems awful: not to renew<br>My boyhood with my boys, and teach 'em hitting,<br>Shooting and hunting, -- all the arts of hurting!<br>-- Well, that's what I learnt. That, and making money.<br>Your fifty years in store seem none too many;<br>But I've five minutes. God! For just two years<br>To help myself to this good air of yours!<br>One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long?<br>Spring air would find its own way to my lung,<br>And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yes, there's the orderly. He'll change the sheets<br>When I'm lugged out, oh, couldn't I do that?<br>Here in this coffin of a bed, I've thought<br>I'd like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever, --<br>And ask no nights off when the bustle's over,<br>For I'd enjoy 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>Dear dust, -- in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan!<br>I'd love to be a sweep's boy, black as Town;<br>Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?<br>A flea would do. If one chap wasn't bloody,<br>Or went stone-cold, I'd find another body. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which I shan't manage now. Unless it's yours.<br>I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.<br>You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,<br>And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased<br>On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned<br>To do without what blood remained me from my wound. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">5th December 1917.</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>
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<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=536286" data-title="Wild with all Regrets de Wilfred Owen" data-description="(Another version of &quot;A Terre&quot;.) 

 To Siegfried Sassoon 


My arms have mutinied against me -- brutes!
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.
Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.
I ca..."></div>
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