Explore "Poems: Conscious" by Wilfred Owen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. / His eyes come open with a pull of will, / Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. / A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill. / How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug! / And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight? / Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug? / "Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air -- / There seems no time to want a drink of water. / Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere / Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter. / Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot: / And there's no light to see the voices by -- / No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.