Robert W. Service
O God, take the sun from the sky!
It’s burning me, scorching me up.
God, can’t You hear my cry?
Water! A poor, little cup!
It’s laughing, the cursed sun!
See how it swells and swells
Fierce as a hundred hells!
God, will it never have done?
It’s searing the flesh on my bones;
It’s beating with hammers red
My eyeballs into my head;
It’s parching my very moans.
See! It’s the size of the sky,
And the sky is a torrent of fire,
Foaming on me as I lie
Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Of the thousands that wheeze and hum
Heedlessly over my head,
Why can’t a bullet come,
Pierce to my brain instead,
Blacken forever my brain,
Finish forever my pain?
Here in the hellish glare
Why must I suffer so?
Is it God doesn’t care?
Is it God doesn’t know?
Oh, to be killed outright,
Clean in the clash of the fight!
That is a golden death,
That is a boon; but this . . .
Drawing an anguished breath
Under a hot abyss,
Under a stooping sky
Of seething, sulphurous fire,
Scorching me up as I lie
Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Hasten, O God, Thy night!
Hide from my eyes the sight
Of the body I stare and see
Shattered so hideously.
I can’t believe that it’s mine.
My body was white and sweet,
Flawless and fair and fine,
Shapely from head to feet;
Oh no, I can never be
The thing of horror I see
Under the rifle fire,
Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Of night and of death I dream;
Night that will bring me peace,
Coolness and starry gleam,
Stillness and death’s release:
Ages and ages have passed, —
Lo! it is night at last.
Night! but the guns roar out.
Night! but the hosts attack.
Red and yellow and black
Geysers of doom upspout.
Silver and green and red
Star-shells hover and spread.
Yonder off to the right
Fiercely kindles the fight;
Roaring near and more near,
Thundering now in my ear;
Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark!
Someone moans in the dark.
I hear, but I cannot see,
I hear as the rest retire,
Someone is caught like me,
Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . .
Again the shuddering dawn,
Weird and wicked and wan;
Again, and I’ve not yet gone.
The man whom I heard is dead.
Now I can understand:
A bullet hole in his head,
A pistol gripped in his hand.
Well, he knew what to do, —
Yes, and now I know too. . . .
Hark the resentful guns!
Oh, how thankful am I
To think my beloved ones
Will never know how I die!
I’ve suffered more than my share;
I’m shattered beyond repair;
I’ve fought like a man the fight,
And now I demand the right
(God! how his fingers cling!)
To do without shame this thing.
Good! there’s a bullet still;
Now I’m ready to fire;
Blame me, God, if You will,
Here on the wire . . . the wire. . .
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This war poem is a visceral and harrowing exploration of the brutality of war, both physically and emotionally. It takes the reader into the mind of a soldier trapped in a nightmarish existence on the front lines, suffering under the scorching heat of the sun and the relentless violence of warfare. The poem builds around the central image of “the wire,” symbolizing both the literal barbed wire that entraps soldiers and the metaphorical wire that holds them in a state of limbo between life and death, agony and peace.
The poem opens with an urgent and desperate cry for relief. The speaker’s anguish is immediate and overwhelming: “O God, take the sun from the sky! / It’s burning me, scorching me up.” The repetition of “God” serves as a plea for mercy, a cry for an escape from the unrelenting heat and pain. This sense of suffering is amplified with the stark imagery of “the flesh on my bones” being seared and the “hammers red” pounding on the speaker’s body. The poet uses vivid, almost grotesque imagery to convey the excruciating physical sensations of being trapped in a hellish environment. The reference to the sun as “a hundred hells” brings to mind an almost surreal, apocalyptic setting, heightening the sense of despair.
The speaker’s longing for a quicker, less painful death intensifies throughout the poem. Instead of a bullet ending his suffering “clean in the clash of the fight,” the speaker is left to endure what feels like an eternal purgatory: “Under a hot abyss, / Under a stooping sky / Of seething, sulphurous fire.” The heat and the violence of the war become indistinguishable, each adding layers to the torment. This feeling of being trapped in a continuous cycle of suffering is mirrored in the constant return to the image of the wire — a place where there is no escape, only the hope for death to come quickly.
The second part of the poem shifts focus to the speaker’s disillusionment with his physical body. He sees his shattered form as a grotesque, alien thing — a far cry from the “white and sweet” body he once had. This transformation highlights not just the physical damage caused by war but also the psychological toll it takes. The self-perception of the soldier is distorted by the horrors he witnesses and endures, and there is a deep sense of disbelief in how the body, once a vessel of life, has been reduced to a thing of horror. The realization of what the body has become underscores the totality of war’s dehumanizing effect.
The hope for nightfall provides a temporary reprieve from the chaos. The speaker dreams of “Night! but the guns roar out,” and despite the promise of peace, it is quickly shattered by the sound of violence drawing nearer. The poem conveys the sense that there is no real escape — not even in sleep or death. Even in moments when the speaker thinks he can rest, he is reminded of the constant threat of violence. The “shuddering dawn” and the grim realization that another day of suffering begins are symbols of the endless cycle of war.
The final shift comes when the speaker considers taking his own life. The crushing weight of despair leads him to contemplate this final act. The poem’s starkest moment is when the speaker finally resolves to take “the right” to end his suffering, to “do without shame this thing.” The decision is presented as a desperate and tragic conclusion to a life that has been utterly shattered. The plea to God, “Blame me, God, if You will,” suggests that the speaker has come to terms with his fate, but it is also an expression of anger and disillusionment with a higher power that has abandoned him in his moment of need.
Throughout the poem, the speaker’s relationship with death is complex and ambivalent. At first, death is something to be feared, a final release from suffering that seems impossible to attain. Yet, as the poem progresses, it becomes clear that death is the only way out of the endless cycle of torment. The moment when the speaker finally accepts that death may be the only way to end his suffering is both tragic and liberating. The speaker’s willingness to face death on his own terms, “here on the wire,” marks a grim surrender to the inevitable.
The poet’s use of repetition — particularly the haunting refrain “the wire . . . the wire” — reinforces the feeling of entrapment and unrelenting suffering. The “wire” becomes a symbol of the soldier’s fate, an unbreakable bond between life and death, suffering and release. The poem’s raw and unflinching portrayal of a soldier’s agony captures the physical and emotional devastation of war.
Ultimately, this poem speaks to the brutal reality of war: its capacity to strip away not only the body but also the soul. The speaker is reduced to a state where even the hope for a dignified death seems like a far-off dream, and the only way to escape the madness is through self-destruction. The poem is a poignant and haunting exploration of the futility of war and the unbearable human cost it exacts.