His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air --
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by --
No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.
Wilfred Owen's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Conscious by Wilfred Owen )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
- Michael P. McParland
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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