 SMILE, SMILE, SMILE, by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Andrew Macbeth. HEAD TO LIMP HEAD The sunk-eyed wounded scanned yesterday's mail. The casualties typed small, and large, BAST BOOTY FROM OUR LATEST HALL. Also, they read of CHEAP HOMES, not yet planned. FORE said the paper. When this war is done, the men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes, it being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead. The sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. The war be worthy victory which all brought. We rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves, if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. The half-limbed readers did not chafe but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England one by one had fled to France, not many elsewhere now safe under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say, how they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Peace would do wrong for our undying dead. The sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy, victory which all brought. We rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves, if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation? The half-limbed readers did not chafe but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England one by one had fled to France, not many elsewhere now safe under France. Pictures of those broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say, how they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Smile, smile, smile by Wilfred Owen, read for LibriVox.org by Icy Jumbo. Head to limp head, the sun-kide wounded scanned yesterday's mail. The casualties typed small, and large, vast booty from our latest hall. Also they read of, cheap homes, not yet planned. Four, said the paper, when this war is done, the men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes, it being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, the sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead, we must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy victory which all bought, we rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation? The half-limbed readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secret safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England one by one had fled to France, not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say, how they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Smile, smile, smile by Wilfred Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by David Federman. Head to limb head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned yesterday's mail. The casualties, type small and large, vast booty from our latest haul. Also they read of cheap homes, not yet planned. Four said the paper, when this war is done, the men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes. It being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead. The sons be offered might regret they died. If we got nothing lasting in their stead, we must be solidly indemnified. Though all be worthy victory which all bought, we rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot. The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation? The half-limbed readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England one by one had fled to France. Not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say how they smile. They're happy now. Poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Head to limp head. The sun-guide wounded scanned yesterday's mail. The casualties, type small, and large, vast booty from our latest haul. Also, they read of cheap homes not yet planned. For, the paper said, When this war is done, men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes. It being certain war has just begun, peace would do wrong to our undying dead. Our sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified, though all be worthy victory which all bought. We rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves, if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. The half of them readers did not chafe but smile at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England, one by one, had fled to France. Not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say, How they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The latest hall. Also, they read of cheap homes, not yet planned. For, said the paper, when this war is done, the men's first instance will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes, it being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead. The sons we offered might regret they died if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. There will be worthy victory, which all bought. We rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot. The greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation, the half-limbed readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who knew their secret safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England, one by one, have fled to France. Not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week and people in whose voice real feeling rings say, How they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the pogromic domain. Smile, smile, smile. By Wilfred Owen. Read for LibriVox.org by Joseph Finkberg. Head to Limp Head. The sunk-eyed wounded scanned yesterday's mail. The casualties typed small and large, vast booty from our latest haul. Also they read of cheap homes. Not yet planned, said the paper. When this war is done, the men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is air-a-dromes. It being certain, war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead. The sons we offered might regret they died, if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemnified. Though all the worthy victory which all bought, we rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot. The greatest glory will be theirs, who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation? The half-limbed readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously, like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England, one by one, had fled to France. Not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real-feeling rings say, How they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. It is not yet planned. For, said the paper, when this war is done, the men's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes, it being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying dead. The sons we offered might regret they died, if we got nothing lasting in their stead. We must be solidly indemified. Though all be worthy victory which all bought, we rulers sitting in this ancient spot would wrong our very selves if we forgot the greatest glory will be theirs who fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation? The half-limbed readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously like secret men who know their secrets safe. This is the thing they know and never speak, that England, one by one, had fled to France, not many elsewhere now save under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real-feeling rings say, How they smile, they're happy now, poor things. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Smile, smile, smile by Wilford Owen, at the limber marks done wrought by Véron Mjoln. Head to limb head, the sun-guide when it scanned, yesterday's mail, the casualties typed small and large, fast booty from all ladies' home. Also, they read of cheap homes, not yet planned. Four said the paper, when this was done, the man's first instinct will be making homes. Meanwhile, their foremost need is aerodromes. It being certain war has just begun. Peace would do wrong to our undying debt. The sins we offered might regret they died, if we got nothing lasting in this debt. We must be solidly undemnified, though all be worthy victory which all bought. We rule thus sitting in this ancient spot, what wrong our very selves have we forgot. The greatest glory will be theirs and fought, who kept this nation in integrity. Nation, the half limb readers did not chafe, but smiled at one another curiously. Like secret men who know their secret safe, this is the thing they know and never speak. Their England, one by one had fled to France, not many elsewhere now safe under France. Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week, and people in whose voice real feeling rings say how they smile, they are happy now, poor things. End of poem, there's recordings in public domain.