Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

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