display | more...
There was a whispering in my hearth,
	A sigh of the coal,
Grown wistful of a former earth
	It might recall.

I listened for a tale of leaves
	And smothered ferns;
Frond-forests; and the low, sly lives
	Before the fawns.

My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
	From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
	Or men had children.

But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
	And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
	Writhing for air.

And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard.
	Bones without number;
For many hearts with coal are charred
	And few remember.

I thought of some who worked dark pits
	Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
	Peace lies indeed.

Comforted years will sit soft-chaired
	In rooms of amber;
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
	By our lives' ember.

The centuries will burn rich loads
	With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids
	While songs are crooned.
But they will not dream of us poor lads
	Lost in the ground.

-- Wilfred Owen --

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.