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

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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


'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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