Halted against the shade of a last hill,
They fed, and lying easy, were at ease
And, finding comfortable chests and knees,
Carelessly slept. But many there stood still
To face the stark blank sky beyond the ridge,
Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled
By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge,
For though the summer oozed into their veins
Like an injected drug for their bodies' pains,
Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass,
Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass.
Hour after hour they ponder the warm field, -
And the far valley behind, where the buttercup
Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up,
Where even the little brambles would not yield
But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands.
[ ] they breathe like trees unstirred.
Till like a cold gust thrills the little word
At which each body and its soul begird
And tighten them for battle. No alarms
Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste, -
Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced
The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done.
O larger shone that smile against the sun, -
Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned.
So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together
Over an open stretch of herb and heather
Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; earth set sudden cups
In thousands for their blood; and the green slope
Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space.
Of them who running on that last high place
Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up
On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge,
Or plunged and fell away past this world's verge,
Some say God caught them even before they fell.
But what say such as from existence' brink
Ventured but drave too swift to sink,
The few who rushed in the body to enter hell,
And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames
With superhuman inhumanities,
Long-famous glories, immemorial shames -
And crawling slowly back, have by degrees
Regained cool peaceful air in wonder -
Why speak not they of comrades that went under?
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Arthur Bliss's 'Morning Heroes'
From guest Gilly Butler (contact)
The words of this most beautiful and moving poem are expressed wonderfully when recited against the extemely moving music of Arthur Bliss's 'Morning Heroes'. -
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It is about the German attacks, called the Spring Offensive, along the Western Front during the First World War.
There are some good comments below on the subject. And here is a link that might help:
http://www.1914-18.co.uk/owen/spring.htm
There are also some good sites on the internet on the Spring Offensive, one can be found here:
http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/german_spring_offensive_of_1918.htm
I hope this helps.
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NOT ONLY DID THE BRITISH DIE
From guest oniford (contact)
I would just like to point out that the poet at no point said the men were English or indeed German; not also that but one could conclude as an intention to keep this option open as both "sides" died in thousands. -
Excellent
Owen had an amazing power with his words. Spring offensive is evidence of it. The exploration of the 3 attitudes in this poem. The soldiers so tired they "carelessly slept" and the others who began to notice the beauties of nature and how much delicacy was around "blessed with gold their boots" and finally the survivors. Whom could never manage to speak of there friends and comrades who died. Displaying an obvious feeling of guilt - a 'why not me?' -
Owen appears to be reluctant to speak the word 'death' and uses other descriptive means with which to do so. The original manuscript shows many alterations, perhaps it was quite a while before he was happy with the finished product.
The story unfolds so clearly, the soldiers waiting for the order to attack (and die). The warm spring day may have reminded them of their English homes and a few fall asleep (perhaps dream) while others watch and wonder if they will in fact survive the day.
The order comes, they race of the brow of the hill exposed to enemy fire and so many of them killed: "Some say God caught them even before they fell". Those that survive are understandably reluctant to speak of the men that died this day.
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wilfred owen is one of the greatest war poets of english literature.a student of english lit. still laments for his untimely death...he had a great wealth to bestow
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Don't people realise what 'OLD POETRY' means.
'And instantly the whole sky burned
With fury against them; earth set sudden cups
In thousands for their blood;'
A masterful description.
A great lose to British poetry, still felt today, the ripples of his leaving. -
Simple-minded,
I'm affraid Wilfred Owen died in 1918.
Like so many dreams of the day, this will always remain; Unfinished.
Andrew -
This is great, written even in his trademark style! It'll be excellent when it is totally finished!
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excellent
I love stories within a Poem prolly why I tend to write those most of all. This was great read
-Jacquie Speer
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Nam on Apr 03, 2003, 3:52 p.m.
Another great intense piece here, in the beginning it was just slow but right in the beginning I couldn't keep my eyes off, and didn't want to look away in the end.
Just a great piece all around.
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