The Send-Off
Wilfred Owen
1893 to 1918
Track 1
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Who gave them flowers.
As men's are, dead.
Stood staring hard,
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
In wild trainloads?
Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
Shall they return to beatings of great bells
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Up half-known roads.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Winked to the guard.
They were not ours:
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