S. I. W. Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: ABCDEFG HIIHJKKJLMLNOONPQQR STTU SVWXY SSXR VR| I will to the King | A |
| And offer him consolation in his trouble | B |
| For that man there has set his teeth to die | C |
| And being one that hates obedience | D |
| Discipline and orderliness of life | E |
| I cannot mourn him | F |
| W B Yeats | G |
| - | |
| - | |
| Patting goodbye doubtless they told the lad | H |
| He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face | I |
| Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace | I |
| Was proud to see him going aye and glad | H |
| Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret | J |
| Until he got a nice safe wound to nurse | K |
| Sisters would wish girls too could shoot charge curse | K |
| Brothers would send his favourite cigarette | J |
| Each week month after month they wrote the same | L |
| Thinking him sheltered in some Y M Hut | M |
| Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim | L |
| And misses teased the hunger of his brain | N |
| His eyes grew old with wincing and his hand | O |
| Reckless with ague Courage leaked as sand | O |
| From the best sandbags after years of rain | N |
| But never leave wound fever trench foot shock | P |
| Untrapped the wretch And death seemed still withheld | Q |
| For torture of lying machinally shelled | Q |
| At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok | R |
| - | |
| He'd seen men shoot their hands on night patrol | S |
| Their people never knew Yet they were vile | T |
| Death sooner than dishonour that's the style | T |
| So Father said | U |
| - | |
| One dawn our wire patrol | S |
| Carried him This time Death had not missed | V |
| We could do nothing but wipe his bleeding cough | W |
| Could it be accident Rifles go off | X |
| Not sniped No Later they found the English ball | Y |
| - | |
| It was the reasoned crisis of his soul | S |
| Against the fires that would not burn him whole | S |
| But kept him for death's perjury and scoff | X |
| And life's half promising and both their riling | R |
| - | |
| With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed | V |
| And truthfully wrote the Mother Tim died smiling | R |
Wilfred Owen
(1)
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