Greater Love
Wilfred Owen
1893 to 1918
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Red lips are not so red
As the stained kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
the fierce Love they bear
Cramps them in death's decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,—
Though as wind murmuring through raftered loft,—
Your dear is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs none now hear
Now earth has stopped their piteous that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot,
Nor large, full like hearts made great with shot;
And though hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for may touch them not.