Wilfred Owen


His face was charged with beauty as a cloud 
    With glimmering lightning. When it shadowed me
     I shook, and was uneasy as a tree 
That draws the brilliant danger, tremulous, bowed.   

So must I tempt that face to loose its lightning. 
    Great gods, whose beauty is death, will laugh above,  
    Who made his beauty lovelier than love. 
I shall be bright with their unearthly brightening.   

And happier were it if my sap consume;  
Glorious will shine the opening of my heart;  
The land shall freshen that was under gloom;  
What matter if all men cry aloud and start,  
And women hide bleak faces in their shawl,  
At those hilarious thunders of my fall?