Textarchiv - Wilfred Owen https://www.textarchiv.com/wilfred-owen English poet and soldier. Born on 18 March 1893 in Oswestry, Shropshire, England. Died 4 November 1918 in Sambre–Oise Canal, France. de Strange Meeting https://www.textarchiv.com/wilfred-owen/strange-meeting <div class="field field-name-body field-type-text-with-summary field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:text content:encoded"><p>It seemed that out of the battle I escaped<br /> Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped<br /> Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.<br /> Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,<br /> Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.<br /> Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared<br /> With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,<br /> Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.<br /> And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;<br /> With a thousand fears that vision&#039;s face was grained;<br /> Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,<br /> And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.<br /> &quot;Strange, friend,&quot; I said, &quot;Here is no cause to mourn.&quot;<br /> &quot;None,&quot; said the other, &quot;Save the undone years,<br /> The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,<br /> Was my life also; I went hunting wild<br /> After the wildest beauty in the world,<br /> Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,<br /> But mocks the steady running of the hour,<br /> And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.<br /> For by my glee might many men have laughed,<br /> And of my weeping something has been left,<br /> Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,<br /> The pity of war, the pity war distilled.<br /> Now men will go content with what we spoiled.<br /> Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.<br /> They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,<br /> None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.<br /> Courage was mine, and I had mystery;<br /> Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;<br /> To miss the march of this retreating world<br /> Into vain citadels that are not walled.<br /> Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels<br /> I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,<br /> Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.<br /> I would have poured my spirit without stint<br /> But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.<br /> Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.<br /> I am the enemy you killed, my friend.<br /> I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned<br /> Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.<br /> I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.<br /> Let us sleep now . . .&quot;</p> </div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-author field-type-taxonomy-term-reference field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" rel="schema:author"><a href="/wilfred-owen" typeof="skos:Concept" property="schema:name" datatype="">Wilfred Owen</a></div></div></div><div class="field field-name-field-releasedate field-type-number-integer field-label-hidden"><div class="field-items"><div class="field-item even" property="schema:datePublished">1918</div></div></div><span rel="schema:url" resource="/wilfred-owen/strange-meeting" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span><span property="schema:name" content="Strange Meeting" class="rdf-meta element-hidden"></span> Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:53:20 +0000 mrbot 6217 at https://www.textarchiv.com