"Disabled" was written by Wilfred Owen, one of the most famous British poets to emerge from World War I. The poem focuses on an injured soldier in the aftermath of that very same war. Still quite young, the man feels old and depends on others for virtually everything, having lost his legs and parts of his arms in battle. Reflecting on his decision to go to war, the poem shows the horror of the conflict and suggests that many young men didn't really know what they were getting themselves into when they first enlisted. The poem was first published in 1920; Owen, however, didn't live to see this, as he was killed in action one week before the war ended.
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1He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
2And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
3Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
4Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
5Voices of play and pleasure after day,
6Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
7About this time Town used to swing so gay
8When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
9And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
10In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
11Now he will never feel again how slim
12Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
13All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * * * *
14There was an artist silly for his face,
15For it was younger than his youth, last year.
16Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
17He's lost his colour very far from here,
18Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
19And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
20And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * * * *
21One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
22After the matches carried shoulder-high.
23It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
24He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
25Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
26That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
27Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
28He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
29Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
30Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
31And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
32Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
33For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
34And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
35Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
36And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * * * *
37Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
38Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
39Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * * * *
40Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
41And do what things the rules consider wise,
42And take whatever pity they may dole.
43Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
44Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
45How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
46And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
1He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
2And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
3Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
4Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
5Voices of play and pleasure after day,
6Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
* * * * *
7About this time Town used to swing so gay
8When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
9And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
10In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
11Now he will never feel again how slim
12Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
13All of them touch him like some queer disease.
* * * * *
14There was an artist silly for his face,
15For it was younger than his youth, last year.
16Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
17He's lost his colour very far from here,
18Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
19And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
20And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
* * * * *
21One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
22After the matches carried shoulder-high.
23It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
24He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
25Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
26That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
27Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
28He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
29Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
30Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
31And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
32Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
33For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
34And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
35Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
36And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
* * * * *
37Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
38Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
39Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
* * * * *
40Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
41And do what things the rules consider wise,
42And take whatever pity they may dole.
43Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
44Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
45How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
46And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow.
Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,—
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of, all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked
him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Poems in Response to Owen — A BBC show in which three contemporary poets respond to Wilfred Owen's poetry.
Learn More About War Poetry — A series of podcast documentaries from the University of Oxford about various aspects of World War I poetry, including some excellent material specifically about Wilfred Owen.
More Poems and Bio — A valuable resource of Owen's other poetry, and a look at his life.
The Poem Out Loud — A reading by Youtuber Tom O'Bedlam.
Bringing WWI to Life — In this clip, director Peter Jackson discusses his recent WWI film, They Shall Not Grow Old. Though technology, Jackson brings old war footage to vivid life, restoring a sense of the soldiers as actual people.
Post-War Life — A short clip examining the treatment of returning WW1 soldiers.