S. I. W
"I will to the King,And offer him consolation in his trouble,For that man there has set his teeth to die,And being one that hates obedience,Discipline, and orderliness of life,I cannot mourn him."W. B. Yeats.
Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the ladHe'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,--Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad.Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fretUntil he got a nice, safe wound to nurse.Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . .Brothers--would send his favourite cigarette,Each week, month after month, they wrote the same,Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut,Where once an hour a bullet missed its aimAnd misses teased the hunger of his brain.His eyes grew old with wincing, and his handReckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sandFrom the best sandbags after years of rain.But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock,Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheldFor torture of lying machinally shelled,At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok.
He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol,Their people never knew. Yet they were vile."Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!"So Father said.
One dawn, our wire patrolCarried him. This time, Death had not missed.We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough.Could it be accident?--Rifles go off . . .Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.)
It was the reasoned crisis of his soul.Against the fires that would not burn him wholeBut kept him for death's perjury and scoffAnd life's half-promising, and both their riling.
With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed,And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling."
Words in this poem
- orderliness n.
- The state or quality of being orderly.
- doubtless a.
- Free from fear or suspicion.
- cigarette n.
- A little cigar; a little fine tobacco rolled in paper for smoking. [F. cigarette.]
- wrote v. i.
- To root with the snout. See 1st Root. [OE. wroten. See 1st Root.]
- wincing n.
- The act of washing cloth, dipping it in dye, etc., with a wince. Wincing machine. (a) A wince. Ure. (b) A succession of winces.
- shelled a.
- Having a shell.
- patrol v. i.
- To go the rounds along a chain of sentinels; to traverse a police district or beat. [F. patrouiller, O. & Prov. F. patrouiller to paddle, paw about, patrol, fr. patte a paw; cf. D. poot paw, G. pfote, and E. pat, v.]
- dishonour n.
- Lack of honor; disgrace; ignominy; shame; reproach. [OE. deshonour, dishonour, OF. deshonor, deshonur, F. déshonneur; pref. des- (L. dis-) + honor, honur, F. honneur, fr. L. honor. See Honor.]
- crisis n.
- The point of time when it is to be decided whether any affair or course of action must go on, or be modified or terminate; the decisive moment; the turning point. [L. crisis, Gr. Certain.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
S. I. W is in the public domain. This text is taken from Poems, Project Gutenberg ebook #1034; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Wilfred Owen, S. I. W, in Poems (1920), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #1034, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/owen-poems/s-i-w.html, id L26126.
Form and metre
S. I. W is 41 lines in 6 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 82%).
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 2 ABBACDDCE-EFGGF-HH- ladA · faceB · disgraceB · gladA · fretC · nurseD · curseD · cigaretteC · sameE · hut · aimE · brainF · handG · sandG · rainF · shock · withheldH · shelledH · amok
- 3 -AA- patrol · vileA · styleA · said
- 4 --AA- patrol · missed · coughA · offA · ball
- 5 AA-- soulA · wholeA · scoff · riling
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| "I will to the King, | 5 | ····· |
| And offer him consolation in his trouble, | 12 | ·/˘··˘/˘··/˘ |
| For that man there has set his teeth to die, | 10 | ·········· |
| And being one that hates obedience, | 10 | ·/˘···˘/˘˘ |
| Discipline, and orderliness of life, | 10 | /˘˘·/˘˘˘·· |
| I cannot mourn him." | 5 | ·/˘·· |
| W. B. Yeats. | 5 | /˘˘·· |
| Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad | 10 | /˘·//˘···· |
| He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; | 10 | ·/········ |
| Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace,-- | 11 | /˘·/˘····˘/ |
| Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret | 10 | ˘/·/˘/˘··· |
| Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. | 10 | ·········· |
| Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . | 10 | /˘········ |
| Brothers--would send his favourite cigarette, | 11 | /˘·······˘/ |
| Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, | 10 | ·········· |
| Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim | 10 | ···/·/˘··· |
| And misses teased the hunger of his brain. | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand | 10 | /˘·/˘/˘··· |
| From the best sandbags after years of rain. | 10 | ···/······ |
| But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld | 10 | ········˘/ |
| For torture of lying machinally shelled, | 11 | ·/˘·/˘····· |
| At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok. | 12 | ··/˘···/··˘/ |
| He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| So Father said. | 4 | ·/˘· |
| One dawn, our wire patrol | 8 | ··/˘/˘˘/ |
| Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. | 10 | /˘·······˘ |
| We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. | 11 | ···/˘···/˘· |
| Could it be accident?--Rifles go off . . . | 10 | ···/˘˘/˘·· |
| Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.) | 11 | ···/˘···/˘· |
| It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Against the fires that would not burn him whole | 10 | ···/······ |
| But kept him for death's perjury and scoff | 10 | ·····/˘˘·· |
| And life's half-promising, and both their riling. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, | 12 | ···/˘·/˘···· |
| And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling." | 11 | ·/˘··/˘··/˘ |
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