{"id":726,"date":"2010-11-11T02:53:09","date_gmt":"2010-11-11T02:53:09","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/?p=726"},"modified":"2017-07-12T02:38:37","modified_gmt":"2017-07-12T02:38:37","slug":"wild-with-all-regrets-by-wilfred-owen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/poemeveryday\/wild-with-all-regrets-by-wilfred-owen\/","title":{"rendered":"Wild with all Regrets by Wilfred Owen"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Wild with all Regrets by Wilfred Owen
\n(Another version of “A Terre”.)<\/p>\n

To Siegfried Sassoon
\n?
\nMy arms have mutinied against me?brutes!
\nMy fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
\nMy back’s been stiff for hours, damned hours.
\nDeath never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.
\nI can’t read. There: it’s no use. Take your book.
\nA short life and a merry one, my buck!
\nWe said we’d hate to grow dead old. But now,
\nNot to live old seems awful: not to renew
\nMy boyhood with my boys, and teach ’em hitting,
\nShooting and hunting,?all the arts of hurting!
\n?Well, that’s what I learnt. That, and making money.
\nYour fifty years in store seem none too many;
\nBut I’ve five minutes. God! For just two years
\nTo help myself to this good air of yours!
\nOne Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long?
\nSpring air would find its own way to my lung,
\nAnd grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
\n?
\nYes, there’s the orderly. He’ll change the sheets
\nWhen I’m lugged out, oh, couldn’t I do that?
\nHere in this coffin of a bed, I’ve thought
\nI’d like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,?
\nAnd ask no nights off when the bustle’s over,
\nFor I’d enjoy the dirt; who’s prejudiced
\nAgainst a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,?
\nLess live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn?
\nDear dust,?in rooms, on roads, on faces’ tan!
\nI’d love to be a sweep’s boy, black as Town;
\nYes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?
\nA flea would do. If one chap wasn’t bloody,
\nOr went stone-cold, I’d find another body.
\n?
\nWhich I shan’t manage now. Unless it’s yours.
\nI shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours.
\nYou’ll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest,
\nAnd climb your throat on sobs, until it’s chased
\nOn sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.
\n?
\nI think on your rich breathing, brother, I’ll be weaned
\nTo do without what blood remained me from my wound.
\n?
\n5th December 1917.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Wild with all Regrets by Wilfred Owen (Another version of “A Terre”.) To Siegfried Sassoon ? My 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…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[84,426],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-726","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-1900s","category-war-poems"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t