Explore "Poems: A Terre" by Wilfred Owen on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell, / Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall. / Both arms have mutinied against me -- brutes. / My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.
I tried to peg out soldierly -- no use! / One dies of war like any old disease. / This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes. / I have my medals? -- Discs to make eyes close. / My glorious ribbons? -- Ripped from my own back / In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)