Disabled Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

Rhyme Scheme: ABACBC BDCDCED FGFHIFIJIJIK JKJKKKKKKK LKLKKLKLMM

He sat in a wheeled chair waiting for darkA
And shivered in his ghastly suit of greyB
Legless sewn short at elbow Through the parkA
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymnC
Voices of play and pleasure after dayB
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from himC
-
About this time Town used to swing so gayB
When glow lamps budded in the light blue treesD
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dimC
In the old times before he threw away his kneesD
Now he will never feel again how slimC
Girls' waists are or how warm their subtle handsE
All of them touch him like some queer diseaseD
-
There was an artist silly for his faceF
For it was younger than his youth last yearG
Now he is old his back will never braceF
He's lost his colour very far from hereH
Poured it down shell holes till the veins ran dryI
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot raceF
And leap of purple spurted from his thighI
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his legJ
After the matches carried shoulder highI
It was after football when he'd drunk a pegJ
He thought he'd better join He wonders whyI
Someone had said he'd look a god in kiltsK
-
That's why and maybe too to please his MegJ
Aye that was it to please the giddy jiltsK
He asked to join He didn't have to begJ
Smiling they wrote his lie aged nineteen yearsK
Germans he scarcely thought of and no fearsK
Of Fear came yet He thought of jewelled hiltsK
For daggers in plaid socks of smart salutesK
And care of arms and leave and pay arrearsK
Esprit de corps and hints for young recruitsK
And soon he was drafted out with drums and cheersK
-
Some cheered him home but not as crowds cheer GoalL
Only a solemn man who brought him fruitsK
Thanked him and then inquired about his soulL
Now he will spend a few sick years in InstitutesK
And do what things the rules consider wiseK
And take whatever pity they may doleL
To night he noticed how the women's eyesK
Passed from him to the strong men that were wholeL
How cold and late it is Why don't they comeM
And put him into bed Why don't they comeM

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen



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