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

Inspection

'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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