11/11

[altariel]

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 the_wild_iris.

Comments

[kalypso-v.livejournal.com]

It inspired me to buy a postcard with a drawing of an iris on it this morning. Don't worry, it was only five pence - something to do with the John Rylands Library having a surplus of stock they need to shift quickly while the building's closed for repairs.