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11/25/2009 9:44:21 AM
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1 Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade 2 How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood; 3 Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash; 4 And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh. 5 Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads 6 Which long to muzzle in the hearts of lads. 7 Or give him cartridges of fine zinc teeth, 8 Sharp with the sharpness of grief and death. 9 For his teeth seem for laughing round an apple. 10 There lurk no claws behind his fingers supple; 11 And God will grow no talons at his heels, 12 Nor antlers through the thickness of his curls. Wilfred Owen
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