The Send-Off

Wilfred Owen

The Send-offDown the close, darkening lanes they sang their way

To the siding-shed,

And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray

As men’s are, dead.
.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp

Stood staring hard,

Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp

Winked to the guard.
.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.

They were not ours:

We never heard to which front these were sent.
.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant

Who gave them flowers.
.
Shall they return to beatings of great bells

In wild trainloads?

A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
.
May creep back, silent, to still village wells

Up half-known roads.
.
Read a short analysis of “The Send-Off”

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Filed under History, Poem

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