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