His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
His eyes come open with a pull of will,
Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.
A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .
How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!
And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?
Why are they laughing?  What's inside 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 and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.
Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:
And there's no light to see the voices by --
No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.

Added: Feb 20 2003 | Viewed: 1665 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Wilfred Owen
Poem: Conscious

Poem of the Day on:
Apr 28 2004
There are no comments for this poem. Why not be the first one to post something about it?

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Conscious, has not yet been commented on. You can click here to be the first to post a comment about it. Of course you can also always discuss poems by Wilfred Owen with others on the Poetry Connection poetry forum!