Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. [i Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] 1/1/2004
2. 1914 1/3/2003
3. A New Heaven 1/3/2003
4. A Palinode 10/31/2015
5. A Terre 12/31/2002
6. A Terre (Being The Philosophy Of Many Soldiers) 1/3/2003
7. An Imperial Elegy 1/3/2003
8. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
9. Anthem For Doomed Youth 12/31/2002
10. Apologia Pro Poemate Meo 12/31/2002
11. Arms And The Boy 12/31/2002
12. As Bronze May Be Much Beautified 1/3/2003
13. Asleep 1/3/2003
14. At A Calvary Near The Ancre 12/31/2002
15. Beauty 1/3/2003
16. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
17. But I Was Looking At The Permanent Stars 1/3/2003
18. Conscious 12/31/2002
19. Cramped In That Funnelled Hole 1/3/2003
20. Disabled 12/31/2002
21. Dulce Et Decorum Est 12/31/2002
22. Elegy In April And September 1/3/2003
23. Exposure 12/31/2002
24. From My Diary, July 1914 4/1/2010
25. Futility 12/31/2002
26. Greater Love 12/31/2002
27. Happiness 1/3/2003
28. Has Your Soul Sipped? 1/3/2003
29. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
30. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
31. I Know The Music 1/3/2003
32. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
33. Insensibility 12/31/2002
34. Inspection 1/3/2003
35. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
36. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
37. Mental Cases 12/31/2002
38. Miners 1/3/2003
39. Music 1/3/2003
40. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
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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