Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

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

Preface

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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