If ever I 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,
I better that; and recollect with shame How once I longed to hide it from life's heats 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, But let my death be memoried on this disc.
The name of the poem stems from identity discs that British soldiers wore around their necks during the First World War.
[3] While recovering, Owen sent a letter to his younger brother Colin, Perhaps you will think me clean mad and translated by my knock on the head.