Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
2. On My Songs 4/1/2010
3. The Calls [unfinished] 1/1/2004
4. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
5. Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 4/1/2010
6. Song Of Songs 4/1/2010
7. Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc 4/1/2010
8. Shadwell Stair 4/1/2010
9. O World Of Many Worlds 4/1/2010
10. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
11. Storm 4/1/2010
12. Preface 1/3/2003
13. Spells And Incantations 1/3/2003
14. The Calls 1/3/2003
15. Red Lips Are Not So Red 1/1/2004
16. Six O'Clock In Princes Street 1/3/2003
17. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 12/31/2002
18. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action 1/3/2003
19. Uriconium: An Ode 1/3/2003
20. The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old 1/3/2003
21. Schoolmistress 1/3/2003
22. Training 1/3/2003
23. The Roads Also 1/3/2003
24. The Unreturning 4/1/2010
25. Music 1/3/2003
26. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
27. Miners 1/3/2003
28. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
29. The Chances 12/31/2002
30. The End 12/31/2002
31. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
32. From My Diary, July 1914 4/1/2010
33. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
34. The Dead-Beat 12/31/2002
35. With An Identity Disc 1/3/2003
36. The Kind Ghosts 1/3/2003
37. A Terre (Being The Philosophy Of Many Soldiers) 1/3/2003
38. Has Your Soul Sipped? 1/3/2003
39. Winter Song 1/3/2003
40. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.- ...

Read the full of Dulce Et Decorum Est

Le Christianisme

So the church Christ was hit and buried
Under its rubbish and its rubble.
In cellars, packed-up saints long serried,
Well out of hearing of our trouble.

One Virgin still immaculate
Smiles on for war to flatter her.
She's halo'd with an old tin hat,
But a piece of hell will batter her.

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