Explore "The Show" by Wilfred Owen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, / As unremembering how I rose or why, / And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, / Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, / And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques.
Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, / There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled.