Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

41. Insensibility 12/31/2002
42. Spring Offensive 12/31/2002
43. Conscious 12/31/2002
44. The Show 12/31/2002
45. Winter Song 1/3/2003
46. Wild With All Regrets 12/31/2002
47. Music 1/3/2003
48. A Terre 12/31/2002
49. Schoolmistress 1/3/2003
50. The Letter 1/3/2003
51. At A Calvary Near The Ancre 12/31/2002
52. But I Was Looking At The Permanent Stars 1/3/2003
53. Soldier's Dream 1/3/2003
54. The Sentry 12/31/2002
55. The Young Soldier 1/3/2003
56. The Send-Off 12/31/2002
57. Inspection 1/3/2003
58. With An Identity Disc 1/3/2003
59. An Imperial Elegy 1/3/2003
60. [i Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson] 1/1/2004
61. Apologia Pro Poemate Meo 12/31/2002
62. Greater Love 12/31/2002
63. Miners 1/3/2003
64. The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young 12/31/2002
65. Cramped In That Funnelled Hole 1/3/2003
66. As Bronze May Be Much Beautified 1/3/2003
67. Elegy In April And September 1/3/2003
68. Strange Meeting 12/31/2002
69. The Last Laugh 1/3/2003
70. Beauty 1/3/2003
71. A New Heaven 1/3/2003
72. I Know The Music 1/3/2003
73. Arms And The Boy 12/31/2002
74. Futility 12/31/2002
75. Mental Cases 12/31/2002
76. The Next War 1/3/2003
77. Asleep 1/3/2003
78. Exposure 12/31/2002
79. 1914 1/3/2003
80. Disabled 12/31/2002

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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

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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