Wilfred Owen (1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)
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A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)
Sit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me,-brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
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Hits & posts of the poem: A Terre (being the philosophy of many soldiers)
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