Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men's are, dead.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.
Shall they return to beatings of great bells
In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.
Notes
This was written whilst Owen was at a holding camp at Ripon, Yorkshire between being discharged from Craiglockhart Hospital and returning to the fighting in France.
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English
From guest Tiffany (contact)
I really like this poem, it really means alot and it made me think about all the poor people fighting in the war -
What was the relationship between Owen and the soldiers going off to war?
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A nnieD
their relationship was mutual - Owen himself was a soldier he was speaking as a commentary, stating what was happening and questioning why.
go to Owens author page and read about the man himself to give you a deeper insight into why he wrote about war as he did.
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A night scene at a railway siding just before troops begin their journey to fight in France. They march in singing, the girls give them flowers. Lots of excitement and enthusiasm. Reality seems to creep in at this point. How many will return? In triumph, shame, or perhaps not at all. Leave a lot of questions to be answered.
Von
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