Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Conscious - Poem by Wilfred Owen

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.

Comments about Conscious by Wilfred Owen

  • Rookie - 6 Points Dawn Fuzan (4/27/2014 3:53:00 PM)

    I like this one, its Good (Report) Reply

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Read poems about / on: music, water, dream, time, light, flower, rose

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, December 31, 2002

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