I, too, saw God through mud...

Wilfred Owen's poetry has always haunted me. As the light coming in my window begins to change from the golden glow of autumn to the white, cold gleam of winter, I find myself once again paging through his writing. As always, he takes my breath.

I have perceived much beauty
In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight;
Heard music in the silentness of duty;
Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share
With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell,
Whose world is but the trembling of a flare,
And heaven but as the highway for a shell,

You shall not hear their mirth:
You shall not come to think them well content
By any jest of mine. These men are worth
Your tears: You are not worth their merriment.

- from Apologia pro Poemate Meo

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