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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?
Wilfred Owen's other poems:
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