Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. A Palinode 10/31/2015
2. Roundel 11/5/2015
3. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
4. Song Of Songs 4/1/2010
5. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
6. On My Songs 4/1/2010
7. The Calls [unfinished] 1/1/2004
8. Shadwell Stair 4/1/2010
9. O World Of Many Worlds 4/1/2010
10. Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc 4/1/2010
11. Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 4/1/2010
12. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
13. Preface 1/3/2003
14. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action 1/3/2003
15. Storm 4/1/2010
16. The Calls 1/3/2003
17. Red Lips Are Not So Red 1/1/2004
18. Six O'Clock In Princes Street 1/3/2003
19. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 12/31/2002
20. Spells And Incantations 1/3/2003
21. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
22. The Unreturning 4/1/2010
23. Music 1/3/2003
24. Training 1/3/2003
25. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
26. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
27. The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old 1/3/2003
28. Uriconium: An Ode 1/3/2003
29. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
30. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
31. Smile, Smile, Smile 12/31/2002
32. The Roads Also 1/3/2003
33. The Chances 12/31/2002
34. S.I.W. 1/3/2003
35. The Kind Ghosts 1/3/2003
36. Has Your Soul Sipped? 1/3/2003
37. From My Diary, July 1914 4/1/2010
38. Miners 1/3/2003
39. The Show 12/31/2002
40. The Dead-Beat 12/31/2002
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

Inspection

'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

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