Conscious
Wilfred Owen
1893 to 1918
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His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His come open with a pull of will,
Helped by yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, out of sight?
Why are they laughing? What's that jug?
"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right."
But sudden dusk bewilders all the air—
There seems no time to want a drink of water.
Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere
Music roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; yet so hot:
And there's no light to see voices by—
No time to dream, and ask—he knows what.
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