---------------------------------------------------------------------------- This file was prepared and is ©2022 by Keygen Ltd LLC for The Proud Reader™ project. https://theproudreader.com/ https://k3y93n.com/ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHnUg4W9wkn2ISDoCxucd_A https://www.bitchute.com/theproudreader/ https://rumble.com/c/TheProudReader https://odysee.com/@TheProudReader:c https://www.minds.com/TheProudReader https://gab.com/TheProudReader https://parler.com/profile/TheProudReader https://twitter.com/TheProudReader https://www.patreon.com/TheProudReader https://www.subscribestar.com/theproudreader https://www.paypal.com/biz/fund?id=5GFSVWEHUPK66 This document is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International license (CC BY-SA 4.0) https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/ Keygen Ltd LLC provides no warranty as to the accuracy of the information or text included in this document. It is provided "as is" and is for entertainment purposes. However, the text below this paragraph is in the public domain, is not subject to the above license, and may be used freely on its own as you see fit—for commercial and non-commercial purposes. Only this document as a whole falls under the CC BY-SA 4.0. If you do use the below text, we would still appreciate a nod since we did the hard work and fixed OCR errors in many cases, but attribution is only required if you modify and redistribute this file. Enjoy! ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Greater Love Wilfred Owen published in Poems By Wilfred Owen, page 3 by London: Chatto & Windus, 1920 Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure. O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead! Your slender attitude Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed, Rolling and rolling there Where God seems not to care; Till the fierce Love they bear Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude. Your voice sings not so soft,— Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,— Your dear voice is not dear, Gentle, and evening clear, As theirs whom none now hear Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed. Heart, you were never hot, Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot; And though your hand be pale, Paler are all which trail Your cross through flame and hail: Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.