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11/11
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
From Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen
And do read the poems posted by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
the_wild_iris.
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
From Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen
And do read the poems posted by
the_wild_iris.
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