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Latest revision as of 07:00, 15 February 2018
by Wilfred Owen
Three rompers run together, hand in hand.
The middle boy stops short, the others hurtle
What bumps, what shrieks, what laughter turning turtle
For Love, racing between us two, has planned
a sudden mischief: shortly he will stand
And we shall shock. You cannot help but fall,
What matter ? Why, it won't hurt at all,
Our youth is supple, and the world is sand.
Better my lips should bruise you so, than He,
Rude Love, outrun our breath; you pant, and I
I cannot run much farther; mind that we,
Both laugh with Love; and having tumbled, try
To go forever children, hand in hand.
Time's sea is rising, and the world is sand.
by Wilfred Owen
1893 - 1918
English teacher, war poet and pacifist, Owen wrote many poems on life and the horrors of war.
Drafted into the army during World War I, he was killed seven days before Armistice.
