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A poem by Wilfred Owen |
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The Show |
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Title: The Show Author: Wilfred Owen [More Titles by Owen] My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, (And smell came up from those foul openings On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. [The end] GO TO TOP OF SCREEN |