Page:Poems (Owen, 1920).djvu/50

 (Another version of "A Terre.")

arms have mutinied against me—brutes!

My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,

My back’s been stiff for hours, damned hours.

Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

I can’t read. There: it’s no use. Take your book.

A short life and a merry one, my buck!

We said we’d hate to grow dead old. But now,

Not to live old seems awful: not to renew

My boyhood with my boys, and teach ’em hitting,

Shooting and hunting,—all the arts of hurting!

—Well, that’s what I learnt. That, and making money.

Your fifty years in store seem none too many;

But I’ve five minutes. God! For just two years

To help myself to this good air of yours!

One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long?

Spring air would find its own way to my lung,

And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.

Yes, there’s the orderly. He’ll change the sheets

When I’m lugged out, oh, couldn’t I do that?

Here in this coffin of a bed, I’ve thought

I’d like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,—

And ask no nights off when the bustle’s over,

For I’d enjoy the dirt; who’s prejudiced

Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,—

Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn?

Dear dust,—in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan!

I’d love to be a sweep’s boy, black as Town;

Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?

A flea would do. If one chap wasn’t bloody,

Or went stone-cold, I’d find another body.

Which I shan’t manage now. Unless it’s yours.

I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.