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Read more poems by Wilfred Owen: Wilfred Owen Poems at Poetry X.

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Conscious

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.

Added: 4 Sep 2001 | Last Read: 11 Dec 2018 6:10 PM | Viewed: 6148 times

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URL: http://plagiarist.com/poetry/1208/ | Viewed on 11 December 2018.
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