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Wilfred Owen - Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc
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If ever I had dreamed of my dead name
High in the heart of London, unsurpassed
By Time for ever, and the Fugitive, Fame,
There seeking a long sanctuary at last, -


Or if I onetime hoped to hide its shame,
- Shame of success, and sorrow of defeats, -
Under those holy cypresses, the same
That shade always the quiet place of Keats,


Now rather thank I God there is no risk
Of gravers scoring it with florid screed.
Let my inscription be this soldier`s disc.
Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.
But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,
Until the name grow blurred and fade away.
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