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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536225" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Conscious</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536225" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.<br>His eyes come open with a pull of will,<br>Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head.<br>A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . .<br>How smooth the floor of the ward is! what a rug!<br>And who's that talking, somewhere out of sight?<br>Why are they laughing? What's inside that jug?<br>"Nurse! Doctor!" "Yes; all right, all right." </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=536225" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">But sudden dusk bewilders all the air --<br>There seems no time to want a drink of water.<br>Nurse looks so far away. And everywhere<br>Music and roses burnt through crimson slaughter.<br>Cold; cold; he's cold; and yet so hot:<br>And there's no light to see the voices by --<br>No time to dream, and ask -- he knows not what.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Wilfred+Owen">Wilfred Owen</a></strong></div>

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