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GREATER LOVE Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care: WILFRED OWEN Adapted by George Pratt Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, And though your hand be pale, As theirs whom none now hear, Paler are all which trail Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Šeems shame to their love pure. Your cross through flame and hail: O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your voice sings not so soft, Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,- Weep, you may weep, Till the fierce love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decreptitude. Your slender attitude Heart, you were never hot Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; for you may touch them not.

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wilfred owen george pratt above the dreamless dead death war world war one ww1 first world war poetry soldiers trenches

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407 A @BEETLEMOSES IT'S THE MOTH MAN!!

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Dulce Et Decorum Est

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; DULCE ET DECORUM EST WILFRED OWEN Adapted by George Pratt But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the ho If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;

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Soldier's Dream

Soldier's Dream Wilfred Owen I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; And caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; And buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; And rusted every bayonet with His tears. And there were no more bombs, of ours or Theirs, Not even an old flint-lock, not even a pikel. Adapted by George Pratt But God was vexed, and gave all power to Michael; And when I woke... he'd seen to our repairs.

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William Utermohlen's Self-Portraits Prior (1967) And Post-Diagnosis of Alzheimer's Disease (1997 and 2000 respectively).

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Nightmare Fuel - Greater Love

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GREATER LOVE Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care: WILFRED OWEN Adapted by George Pratt Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, And though your hand be pale, As theirs whom none now hear, Paler are all which trail Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Šeems shame to their love pure. Your cross through flame and hail: O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your voice sings not so soft, Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,- Weep, you may weep, Till the fierce love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decreptitude. Your slender attitude Heart, you were never hot Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; for you may touch them not.

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Uploaded Dec 17, 2020 at 04:52AM EST

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Poem by Wilfred Own, Art by George Pratt, Source is Above the Dreamless Dead.

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