Four Darks in Red

7:00 AM

Mark Rothko, Four Darks in Red, 1958

Insensibility by Wilfred Owen

Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red, 
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the color of blood forever.
And terror's first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.

Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack, 
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to hunger night.

We wise, who with a thought besmirch 
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashes eyes?
Alive, he is not vital over much;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud, 
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men's placidity from his.

Editor's Note: Students were asked to match a poem of their choice with a painting of their choice. The relationship between the two shall be determined by the viewer/reader.

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