Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

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


This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak
of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,
dominion or power,
except War.
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
Yet these elegies are not to this generation,
This is in no sense consolatory.

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